


you and i

by sylwrites



Series: fall in light [9]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Established Relationship, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-02-12 13:49:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 32,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12960678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sylwrites/pseuds/sylwrites
Summary: Her life changes forever on a chilly mid-February evening, and this time, she's not alone.A final coda to 'Fall in Light'. AU.





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you.

_I want to see you shine;_  
_And we will feel the weight  
Fall away from us in time._

  * Jeff Buckley



  
  
  
  


One year and five months after moving into her dream apartment in Manhattan, Betty realizes she’s going to have to move again. And this time, Jughead’s not going to be able to put up a fight.

 

Because _this_ time, she’s pregnant.

  
  
  
  


 

It starts in February.

 

Betty does not observe Valentine’s Day - not particularly by intention, but sort of by association, since it’s a day to celebrate romance and the guy she has that with firmly believes that it’s a corporate holiday designed to exploit love. He’s not _wrong,_ necessarily; it’s just that - well - she _likes_ flowers, and she _likes_ nice dinners, and it doesn’t have to be on February 14th, but nobody ever died from a little romance.

 

Of course, she’s spent the last three and a half years dating Jughead, so while she’s not surprised by his annual declaration of February 14th as ‘anti-Valentine’s Day’, she is _shocked_ when she comes home from work that evening to find him in the kitchen cooking dinner.

 

He’s dressed nicely too, in a pair of chinos and the dark blue sweater that she’d given him for Christmas - definitely _not_ the jeans and button-down he’d gone to work in that morning. His hat is gone, likely squirreled away by now into the spot behind the couch where Caramel likes to horde socks, and when he turns to smile upon her entrance, the only thing that occupies her mind for a second is just how damn good-looking he is.

 

“You’re early!” Jughead says, dropping whatever he’s hunched over by the counter and moving toward her. “You’re not supposed to be home until six-thirty.”

 

He crowds her out of the kitchen and toward the hallway. Betty lets him, intrigued, and follows with a raised eyebrow as he pulls her into the bedroom. “Yeah, I finished a little early,” she tells him, dropping her bag on the floor and shrugging her coat off. “Am I interrupting something?”

 

“I’m just … in the middle of dinner,” he finishes lamely, reaching a hand up to scratch his neck. “I have a whole thing planned. Just - stay in here for like, fifteen more minutes, okay?”

 

Both of her eyebrows raise now. “You have _what_ planned, exactly?” Betty asks, turning her back to Jughead and presenting the zipper of her sheath dress.

 

“A whole thing, like I said,” he repeats. The dress loosens around her as it’s unzipped, but her plans to change into sweatpants are immediately derailed by Jughead’s wandering hands. They slip into the new opening at her lower back and ghost upward, skimming over her bra before assisting in tugging the front of her dress down through her arms. Betty relaxes into his touch, wiggles a little to help him tug the fabric over her hips, and then kicks her dress to the side once it falls to the ground.

 

His mouth attaches itself first to the back of her shoulder and then the side of her neck, lips making their way to the spot behind her ear that they both know is particularly sensitive. Her head drops to her right shoulder to allow him better access, and as her eyelids are fluttering with pleasure, she catches a glimpse of herself in the full-length mirror beside their closet.

 

It’s interesting, she thinks, that a few years ago if she were to see a photo of a couple in the sort of embrace that she and Jughead are in, she’d make assumptions about the kind of sensations running through each of their bodies. And still, she’d never match the way she now _knows_ it feels to stand here, barefoot on the cool hardwood, in the matching light pink bra and panty set that she’d originally bought because of its ability to prove invisible beneath the particular dress she’d worn to work that day. She’d never guess that it could feel so good to have hands - his hands - fondling her breasts, or that she’d let out a gasp of pleasure when one of those hands slides to press between her legs.

 

“I love you,” Jughead mutters into her ear just before he tugs her earlobe between his teeth gently. “More than anything.”

 

Her bra feels loose on her chest, and it’s only when it falls away, her arms still looped through it, that she realizes Jughead unhooked the clasp. She quickly sheds it and then reaches behind herself to grip his leg with her hand. He catches a nipple between his thumb and forefinger, tugging ever-so-slightly, and Betty gasps her reply: “Me too.”

 

He pulls his hand out from between her legs and hooks his thumb in the side of her underwear. “Can I?” he murmurs, dropping a kiss to her shoulder.  

 

Betty nods, and moments later, she’s kicking her panties away as well. And then she is back under his hands, transfixed by the image of herself naked while her fully-clothed boyfriend gently parts her legs with one reassuring hand and then slides two fingers inside her. She breathes in, memorizing the familiar fullness, and murmurs a string of affectionate nothings in his general direction.

 

“I love you,” he tells her again, pressing the pad of his thumb against her clit. She jerks involuntarily, earning a chuckle from Jughead, then he does it again, and again, and again, until the press and the circular motion is too much, and she’s coming with his fingers curled inside her and the other hand on her chest.

 

He pulls her into his arms afterward and holds her in a tight embrace before stretching her across their bed and handing her fresh underwear. “I thought you had something planned,” Betty says finally, revelling in the stretch of her naked body atop their soft duvet. She’s only distantly aware of a hungry rumble in her stomach.

 

“I do,” Jughead informs her, sitting down on the bed beside her. She opens her eyes and sees him staring down at her body, the corner of his mouth pulled thoughtfully between his teeth. “I just got sidetracked,” he adds, palming one of her breasts as he leans in to kiss her quickly. “That was a preview, but there _is_ food, I promise.”

 

“Mm.” Betty smiles, closing her eyes again. The loss of his hands on her body and the slight raise of the mattress tell her that he’s stood up; moments later, she hears banging in the kitchen and his quiet curse of “fuck!”, and she realizes he’s out of the room, too. She stays stretched on the bed for ten more minutes, caught between sleep and wakefulness in the kind of post-orgasm haze she’s come to love, trying to summon the drive to get up and put clothes on.

 

What eventually works is the unmistakeable smell of _pizza,_ which is probably the last thing Betty ever expected Jughead to make, given that his culinary specialty is really finding creative ways to reheat leftovers. She gets up and, forgoing underwear, pulls on a soft sweater and pajama shorts, fully intending to make Jughead keep her warm on the couch after.

 

When she gets out to the kitchen, she realizes that this is definitely _a whole thing:_ he’s lit actual candles, there’s soft instrumental music playing, and the pizzas, somehow, are heart-shaped.

 

“Juggie,” Betty says softly, walking up to the table, where he’s setting plates holding a pizza each in their regular spots. “What is this?”

 

He turns and smiles at her, shrugging a little. “Just felt like it.”

 

She bites her bottom lip, smiles into it, and teases, “Because it’s _Valentine’s-”_

 

Jughead presses his mouth to hers, the kiss silencing her briefly. _“No,”_ he insists. “You’re not getting flowers until tomorrow, the floral lobby will _not_ get me.” He gives her ass a brief squeeze and then pulls her chair out for her, which she sits upon primly. “I was trying to think of what we could do to celebrate anti-Valentine’s Day this year, and I realized that all I wanted to do was eat something delicious and then spend the rest of the night with you,” he continues, going around to the other side of the table and sitting across from her. “But I also know that you like this kind of stuff, and I’d do it for you on February 10th so there’s no reason I shouldn’t do it on February 14th. But it’s _not_ because of Valentine’s Day,” he reaffirms, pointing his finger at her.

 

Betty giggles and grabs the finger in question, tugging playfully for a moment before she lets go to look at her pizza. “Noted,” she says, giving a mock salute. “Not because of Valentine’s Day. Well, this looks delicious, Juggie.”

 

“Prosciutto, mushrooms, and spinach,” he says proudly. “I even bought fresh mozzarella for the first time ever. Did you know it’s not actually meant to come in a rectangular brick?”

 

She suppresses a snort. “Really,” she marvels, filing the moment away to tell Veronica. “So, what are your plans for us later?”

 

Jughead has a slice of pizza half-lodged in his mouth when she asks the question; he tears a bite away, chews quickly and swallows, then says, “Sex.”

 

That makes her giggle again; it’s this, the stark, plain statement and lack of subtlety, that’s so quintessentially Jughead - but the private version of him, the one only she gets to see. For that, she’s grateful.

 

Jughead looks mildly offended by her laughter. “Is the idea of sex with me _funny?”_ His eyes sparkle and his mouth slides into a half-grin. “You weren’t laughing half an hour ago. In fact,” he adds with a wink, ”the only thing I heard you saying at all was my name-”

 

Betty shakes her head, still chuckling, and lifts a slice of pizza to her mouth. “You’re good with your hands, I’ll give you that,” she allows, taking a bite. She chews slowly, thoughtfully, enjoying the smug look on his face. She’s teasing, and so is he, but she loves the way his face relaxes with the slightest bit of new confidence, even if it’s feigned. His self-esteem issues have been a hurdle in their relationship, but like her own problems, time and love seem to be healing them.

 

“It’s not my hands you’ll have to look out for later, babe,” he flirts, making a crude gesture and prompting an eyeroll from Betty.

 

“Why do I love you again?”

 

Jughead shrugs. “My sparkling Mr. Congeniality personality? I dunno. Maybe you’re really into rumpled, stressed, post-deadline writers.”

 

Betty snaps her fingers. “That must be it. I can’t get enough of the smell of day-old coffee and body odour.”

 

 _“Hey.”_ He frowns deeply. “I do _not_ have body odour, you take that back!”

 

She giggles, holds her hands up in mock surrender, and then gives a miniature bow of her head. “You smell like roses twenty-four-seven, Juggie.”

 

“That’s right.” He downs the last slice of his pizza and gestures to Betty’s, which is half-eaten. “You can’t be full,” he scoffs.

 

“Homemade dough is _dense,”_ Betty informs him. “And filling.”

 

“So am I, babe.” Jughead reaches over and takes her plate from her, stacking it on top of his empty one. He stands up and moves over to the kitchen, where he sets the plate - uncovered, which makes Betty wrinkle her nose - in the fridge. Then he walks calmly over to where Betty still sits and leans down to drop a quick peck on her lips. She turns her face up to meet his and intends post-kiss to tell him to use a goddamn Tupperware container, but his hands slide under her thighs and tug her to her feet.

 

“Jug, what - _ohmigod!”_ she squeals, clutching onto the back of his sweater as she becomes airborne, hoisted overtop of his shoulder. “You’re such a caveman.”

 

He carries her down the hallway and into their bedroom again, his hands unapologetically groping her ass as she’s laid once more on their bed. “Normally, I would protest,” Jughead says, “because I’m _evolved,_ but I can’t really argue right now.” He tugs his sweater off and then slides his belt out of its loops, letting both articles drop to the floor beside her previously-discarded dress and underwear.

 

Betty props herself up on her elbows to watch him, but she lets her back hit the mattress again once he crawls over top of her and kisses her, hands already wandering underneath her sweater. She arches her back into him, whining at the friction of his rough palms against the sensitive skin of her breasts, then lifts her shoulders off the bed to help him undress her. “Juggie,” she gasps, fisting her hand in his hair as his lips close around her nipple.

 

“So gorgeous,” Jughead breathes once he surfaces for air, “you’re so damn beautiful, baby.”

 

His words swirl around in her head as a smile stretches across her face. “You’re not bad yourself,” she sighs, lifting her hips to assist him in pulling her shorts off. She feels her legs spread and opens one eye to glances down; he’s shifted south on the bed, his palms gently opening her thighs, and is staring reverently at her body as though he’s not quite sure where to begin. The image is a little too much to process; her head falls back against the pillow, hazy. “Get more naked,” she mumbles.

 

“In a bit,” he says, his response a bit delayed and the words sounding almost like an afterthought. She’s confused by his distraction and is in the midst of summoning the energy to look at him again when his hands push further at her thighs, giving a delicious stretch. Betty hums appreciatively at the feeling and opens her mouth to speak, but at that moment his head drops between her legs, and all that comes out is a rushed “ohmigod.”

 

 

 

 

They spend the evening almost entirely in bed. He goes down on her for their longest period yet, then rids himself of his pants and boxers and pushes into her, all the while murmuring his love and encouragement into her ear. Oral sex - for her, anyway - is something they’ve only relatively recently broached, despite years of comfortable sexual activity. It had always seemed _so_ personal, so deeply intimate, requiring of an impossible level of trust and the exact right circumstances for Betty not to feel overwhelmed and scared by the complete surrendering of power. She still can’t deal with it for longer than fifteen minutes, usually, but today he pushes that to nearly twenty-five, and by the end she is a boneless, whimpering mess.

 

“You’re so incredible,” Jughead tells her, kissing her collarbone as he moves inside her. “I’m so lucky, baby, I love you so much-”

 

She wants to stop and tell him _no,_ that’s ridiculous, _she’s_ the lucky one, the girl who thought she’d never have this and then found the most patient, understanding man in the world, but she’s overwhelmed and emotional and she’s afraid that if she speaks, she’ll cry. So instead, she grabs his face and kisses his mouth, keeping his face with hers until he climaxes, warm and wet inside her.

 

He rolls away, ostensibly to rid himself of a condom, but her thighs feel wet and Betty realizes that they didn’t use one. Jughead returns with a cloth and delicately cleans her as best as he can, then climbs back into bed and pulls her over to his side, away from the wet spot. “Naptime, then _The Good Place?”_ he suggests, his fingers dancing down her shoulder blade.

 

“Sure,” she yawns, cuddling closer. She’s so tired, and she feels so full and sated and happy, that she doesn’t go pee like she knows she should, doesn’t care to fix the smudge of mascara left on her pillow, and for sure, _definitely_ doesn’t remember about the voicemail on her phone and the late-filled prescription.

 

 

* * *

 

 

She’d picked up her birth control the next day, her mind spacing on the lack of condom used with Jughead the night before - she’s always been on the pill, so they often don’t double up, and apart from one time two years ago they haven’t had any scares - then carried on with her life.

 

Until four and a half weeks later.

 

Betty feels like shit, and she’s missed her period by more than a week, and now Betty is under no illusions about what it could be. This time, she’s not doing this alone - not sitting on any fire escape ledges crying into the phone to Veronica, not peeing on a stick in a bathroom by herself. She’ll do all that, but Jughead will be with her, and by now she is no longer afraid of his reaction.

 

She stops on the way home from work to pick up a pregnancy test from the drugstore, and ends up buying three to be safe. She pukes into a garbage can outside their apartment building, then makes her way up to their unit and spends ten minutes with the toilet before her stomach settles enough to change out of her dress clothes. Betty pulls on pajama pants and one of Jughead’s shirts, then sits on the bed and waits for him to come home.

 

He does, coming through the door fifteen minutes later with characteristically heavy footsteps. Betty can hear him drop his bag by the door, kick his shoes off, and lose his coat, and she counts down _(three, two, one)_ until he reaches their bedroom.

 

“Hey Betts,” Jughead greets, frowning at her a little. “You okay? You look pale.”

 

She nods slowly, stomach still a little wary, and pats the bed beside her. “Sit down.”

 

He obeys, the frown deepening with his also-characteristic concern. “What’s up?

 

“Do you remember Valentine’s Day?” Betty asks.

 

His eyes dart thoughtfully to the right for a moment, then his face breaks into a grin and he chuckles. “Yeah,” he answers. “Why, you want a replay? I’m a little hungry, but if you give me a-”

 

“No, I - Juggie.” Betty reaches over and touches his wrist. “Listen to me. I - we didn’t use a condom. And … I filled my prescription late, accidentally. I was in DC for that conference so I didn’t get it until the Tuesday after I usually would, and I’ve been throwing up, and - uh-” She fidgets with the hem of his shirt, nervous suddenly, and looks up at him tentatively.

 

Jughead’s eyes are wide, his face frozen. “Betty...”

 

“I think I’m pregnant, Juggie,” she whispers, biting her lip. “I haven’t taken a test, but I bought some today, and I - if you could just … stay here, be here, while I take them, I-” Her voice cracks, her chest suddenly tightening with discomforting and unanticipated emotion. “Please.”

 

The first thing Jughead says is “holy shit”, followed immediately by his arms wrapping around her and lips pressing to hers, then, “Of _course,_ Betty, _god,_ anything. Where - do you wanna do it now? Do you want me to come to the bathroom with you?”

 

She bites her lip, shoulders slightly less tense with his reaction. They’ve been through a lot, and she hadn’t anticipated anything other than his support at this point, but it’s still nice to _know._

 

“I can do the peeing part alone,” she says, giving a small laugh and standing up. “I’ll let you know when to come in.”

 

Betty slips into the small bathroom, takes the three boxes from beneath the sink, and carefully reads the instructions for each of them before proceeding to pee in turn on all of them. After setting a timer on her phone, she stares at the sticks, remembering a time two years before she’d felt terror about the potential results, and is grateful all over again for Jughead’s presence on the other side of the door.

 

She flushes, washes her hands, and then turns the knob to let him in. He’s beside her in seconds, his arms firmly around her. “I love you, sweetheart,” Jughead says into her hair. “No matter what it says, I love you, and I’ll always love you.”

 

Betty’s eyes flutter closed. “I know,” she says softly. “I love you too.” She swallows, feeling the tension in his arms as they tighten around her. “If it’s positive, we’re going to have to move,” she realizes.

 

“We’ll deal with that.” He starts rubbing her back in slow circles.

 

“But I _like_ this apartment.”

 

Jughead kisses her temple. “We’ll find a place in the same neighbourhood.” He squeezes her shoulder, then presses against it gently until she leans back. She’s shocked to see tears in his eyes, but her vision is a little blurry and she realizes that she has them, too. “Betty, I know I’ve really fucked up these things in the past, but I want you to know - no, I _need_ you to know - that you are the most important thing in this whole world to me, okay? You and - if there’s a baby.”

 

Betty nods, her throat clogged, and she presses her face into his chest again. Her phone alarm goes off a few seconds later, and she pulls back from him, swallowing her tears. This feels so different than the last time, so much warmer, so much safer, and still - she feels like she already knows.

 

She looks anyway, peeling herself away from him to stare at the results window on all of the tests. Then she turns back to Jughead, who looks beyond anxious. “Well?”

 

Betty bites her lip. “You’re going to be a father.”

 

The tension in Jughead’s jaw falls away as it goes slack, his mouth opening in wordless, almost reverent shock. His eyes flick down to her abdomen and quickly back to her face, questioningly, as if despite their conversation he still can’t believe it.

 

Then, slowly - cheeks raise, breath exhales, and Jughead smiles.

 

 

  


**fin**  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm taking a break from writing Bughead for a little while. I had written this piece a while back with the intention that it be the first chapter of a longer final coda. With recent events I don't feel up to completing it at this time, but I wanted to post this as a bookend to this series. I may return to it later if mental tides change but in case I don't, I wanted to share.
> 
> This series has been very special to me. I have been overwhelmed with every entry to the series, every chapter, by the love that you all have shown it. It'll always be the piece of which I am the most proud.
> 
> So thank you again, one final time, for all your FIL-related love. :) If I could, I'd gift this to all of you. You guys are really the best!


	2. two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heartfelt thanks go to onceuponamirror for her support in this chapter.

_the day you have everything_  
_i hope you remember_  
_when you had nothing_

  * Rupi Kaur



  


It all becomes strikingly real to Jughead a few weeks later.

 

Betty is tentatively seven weeks along, at least according to the doctor they’d seen after first taking the home pregnancy test, and even if Jughead hadn’t been convinced before, it’s clear that she’s pregnant now. They have a prenatal appointment scheduled for - well, today, he supposes, although when it’s one in the morning, that distinction seems like it's little blurred.

 

He’s crouched beside Betty in their small bathroom, rubbing soothing circles against her back as she vomits the chicken salad they’d had for dinner into the toilet. He feels awful for her, because even though this is happening as a result of something happy and exciting for both of them, she is the one bearing the physical brunt of it. She’s been unable to keep food down for weeks now and has actually _lost_ weight, which worries the hell out of Jughead. She’s also seemed very tired, and even though Jughead is not typically upset about her skipping her early-morning runs, it is definitely odd and concerning to see his usually vibrant, energetic girlfriend be so lethargic. She’s trying to put on a happy face, especially since nobody besides him even knows about her pregnancy yet, but when she comes home all of her defenses seem to fall away.

 

“I love you,” he murmurs, his hand still moving clockwise against her pajama shirt. “I’m so sorry, Betts. I know it's a happy sick, but - I'm still sorry.”

 

Betty leans back from the toilet and takes a slow breath in. “It’s not your fault,” she answers quietly, wiping her mouth on some toilet paper and then flushing it into the toilet. “Well it is kinda, maybe.” She reaches up to grasp the counter in order to pull herself to her feet; immediately, Jughead stands up and helps her instead. He waits dutifully while she brushes her teeth again, then flicks the light off and shuffles to bed beside her.

 

She lays down on her side. Jughead isn’t sure if she wants him to cuddle up with her - he knows he doesn’t like being touched when he’s nauseous - but then her hand reaches backward, grasping air, and he slides himself in behind her.

 

“Whoever named morning sickness is a liar,” she grumbles.

 

Jughead chuckles softly. “I’ll sue them for everything they’re worth,” he promises, kissing behind her ear. He slides a hand onto her abdomen, cautious and gentle, and smiles when she gives a sigh of contentment. He’s always loved touching Betty, but now that he knows her body is building a baby - _his_ baby - he’s had to work to restrain himself from doing it constantly.

 

Most of the time, he still can’t believe it. It’s only been a few short weeks since they’d found out, and technically, anything could still happen - but already, something has come over him. He’s never felt quite this way before - as protective as he generally is toward Betty, he suddenly wants to wrap himself around her and never let anyone look at her or talk to her again. He can only imagine how it’ll be when she starts showing, when her pregnancy is obvious; he’s already preparing his _don’t touch her unless she gives you permission_ speech for all of the well-meaning but physically invasive people that he’s heard about.

 

He never thought he’d _that guy,_ but apparently, he is; he’s already defensive about Betty’s physical boundaries, and he’s tremendously worried about the effect of adding a swollen belly to that mix.

 

At the same time, he’s fucking _elated,_ and also surprised at himself for that elation, because even though he knew he loved Betty and that he’d be excited for a family with her, it’s still something else altogether to actually see that positive test result and now to see the effects of that pregnancy, even though they’re mostly bad at this stage.

 

“My app says the baby is a raspberry this week,” Betty says after a few minutes of silence, her hand coming to cover his on her stomach.

 

His lips touch her ear again. “I love raspberries.”

 

She giggles. “You said that about it being a blueberry last week.”

 

“I love all fruit,” Jughead comments, shifting her top slightly so that he can move his hand beneath it and touch her bare skin. “Especially when the fruit is my baby.” He drops a kiss to her neck and lets his hand slip upward to cup one of her breasts.

 

Betty inhales, not sharply but with certainty, and he stills his hand. “Sorry,” she whispers. “Just be gentle. They’re so sore.”

 

He makes a mental note of that and takes extra care to lighten his touch. “They’re already bigger,” he tells her, nosing at her neck until she giggles again. “I love them.”

 

“Mhm.” Betty twists onto her back and smiles up at him, her eyes shining. “That’s gonna happen.” He gently rubs his thumbs over her nipples, watching intently as she whines a little and arches her back in response. “Jug, you’re such a _guy_ about this, who knew-”

 

He cuts her off with a delicate kiss. “I love you. And the little berry in there,” he adds, lifting her shirt even further and moving down her body so that he can drop a kiss to her stomach. “You are so incredible.”

 

Betty bites her lip and sits up a little so that he can lift her top off completely, then settles herself back down just as Jughead takes the cue to lower his lips to her chest. She’s not made of glass but he kinda feels like it anyway: wants to touch her carefully, delicately, set her on a shelf for safekeeping. And then at the same time - he can’t get enough of her, especially knowing that she’s pregnant with _his_ baby, that inside her is _their child;_ he feels possessive in a way he hasn’t before and it scares him a little, just how much he wants to take her and mark her as his so that nobody would even _dare_ to so much as look at her.

 

“The little berry and I love you too,” she sighs, her fingers coming to thread through his messy hair as his mouth and hands work at her chest. “But Juggie - I love this, I do, I - I’m really tired, can we take a rain check?”

 

Jughead’s forehead drops to her neck in disappointment despite himself. For the last two weeks, she’s been too tired or too nauseous for any kind of sex, and while he definitely understands and respects where she’s coming from, it unfortunately is coinciding with some kind of enhanced virility on his part. He’s not one to be a slave to his biological urges, but _god,_ he has _urges_ over pregnant Betty.

 

“Of course, baby,” he says immediately, pecking her lips and then dropping another quick kiss to her stomach before he locates her shirt and helps her back into it. He slides his arms around her and chews the inside of his lip as she relaxes into him, her eyes fluttering shut and her breathing evening out in short order.

 

He lays awake for awhile, his hand stroking her shoulder blade, thinking that soon everything will be different.

 

.

.

.

 

He’s doing the same thing two days later, laying awake at 2:00am with Betty tucked in front of them, one hand resting on her still-flat stomach, when his phone starts to ring.

 

Jughead knows it’s a phone call immediately because the ringer is only set for incoming calls, not texts, and well - _nobody_ calls him. Even Betty, by far the person he communicates the most with via his cell phone, primarily texts him. His number is unlisted, so telemarketers don’t get a hold of him that frequently, and if he ever got an actual call from his work instead of just incessant emails, he’d _really_ think something had gone wrong.

 

Of course, a phone call at this hour can not possibly be any good news, so he rolls away from Betty and picks his phone up off the bedside table. He slips out of bed, not wanting to wake her up, and quietly murmurs, “Hello?” as he tiptoes out of the bedroom.

 

“Hey, kid.”

 

Jughead’s heartbeat picks up speed as he very carefully closes the bedroom door and steps into the living room. “Dad.” He clears his throat. “It’s the middle of the night.”

 

“I thought you were a night owl.” FP’s voice sounds quiet, distant somehow, like there’s more than just miles separating them. “You used to be.”

 

“I am by nature. But with work, I have to get up fairly early, so…” Jughead trails off, feeling uncomfortable with the stillness on the line.

 

Over the years since his father has been sober, Jughead has become more content with having silences between them. They used to be clear evidence that FP was stalling, trying to avoid sharing some bad news, and it was usually something like _sorry kid, I’m not gonna make it there,_ or _can’t do it this time._ After awhile, Jughead began to avoid those silences at any cost; the result was always the same, but somehow there’s a difference between knowing that something is forthcoming and actually hearing a declaration of inevitability. That way, he got to manage it, filter the information slowly, and temper his own reaction properly.

 

And _this_ feels so familiar, in all the terrible ways it could.

 

“What’s going on, Dad?” Jughead finally asks, sitting down on the arm of their sofa and staring out at the lights through his window. He’s familiar with the nickname ‘the city that never sleeps’, and in his experience, it’s true: something is always happening in New York, somewhere, with someone. Right now, he wants to be there, wherever _there_ is, rather than here with his father on the phone in the wee hours.

 

There’s a heavy sigh, then FP speaks again. “I was just … thinking. Do you remember the morning after your mom left?”

 

An unexpected, choked sound comes out of Jughead’s throat, as if a breath was caught somewhere between inhalation and exhalation and had just managed to escape. “Why are you thinking about that?” he asks, a little more bluntly than he’d otherwise be.

 

“I thought she was gonna come back, kid. I swear.” He mutters something unintelligible, then continues, low and gruff. “I remember I sat there and stared at her dresser. That empty fucking dresser. She took my daughter and she left and-”

 

FP pauses, his voice shuddering. Jughead’s eyes close.

 

“And meanwhile you went to school and came back and went again and came back and … lived your life. I don’t even know who fed you.”

 

Jughead drops his forehead into his palm and uses his fingertips to massage his left temple. _“I_ fed me, Dad. Hell, I fed _you.”_

 

“You were always better at any of that shit than I was, Jug.” FP makes a muffled noise that sounds suspiciously like crying, but it’s soon disguised by another sigh. “She should’ve never married me. I wasn’t - I wasn’t good enough for her. She deserved better. Guess she finally realized that, huh?”

 

Rehashing this time of his life was the absolute last thing that Jughead had wanted out of tonight. He hadn’t planned anything in particular, but going to bed at eleven, only for Betty to get up and spend half an hour in the bathroom, during which she’d started to cry _(I’m so tired, Jug, I just want to sleep, why can’t I sleep),_ had definitely not been on the agenda. Finally, she’d fallen asleep, and at that point doing the same was really all he wanted.

 

But _this-_

 

“She wasn’t happy, Dad,” Jughead mutters.

 

“Neither was I!” FP says, urgency in his tone. “And _you_ …” He falters. “Christ, Jug, _you_ deserved better.”

 

Jughead is silent. He wants to say _yeah, I did,_ wants to slam his palm on a table and holler _hell yeah, I fucking did,_ but he hashed things out with his father years ago. He’s done this, and he’s not sure why this is suddenly resurfacing now. He lifts his head and stares out the window again, his eyes hard.

 

FP’s voice cracks. “You deserved better than both of us, Jug. You deserved better than me and your mom and some trailer park on the south side-” He stops abruptly, choking, and it’s now that Jughead realizes his father is crying.

 

He’s heard his dad cry more than FP probably knows. There were many periods, particularly after Jellybean and his mom left, when his dad would get drunk every night. Really bad ones would end with his dad in tears on the couch while baseball played soundlessly on the old TV, then passed out on that same couch. Jughead _knows_ what the tears mean, and tonight, there’s a shakiness in them that he hasn’t heard in a long time.

 

And suddenly, it’s Jughead that feels like crying. “Dad, are you drinking?”

 

“No.” FP’s response catches at first, then he clears his throat and says, with more strength, _“No._ I swear, kid.”

 

His eyes close. “Do you want to?”

 

There’s another silence, and then-

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Dad, call your sponsor,” Jughead says. His throat feels clogged. He hates this. “This isn't you reminiscing. _God,_ you know better than this, Dad! I’m not - I can't-”

 

_(I’m not an expert. I can't fix you. I don't know what you want from me.)_

 

The sound of his father crying is the only thing that fills his ears. Jughead’s chest clenches with heartache and confusion. He's hardened himself to his father’s destructive tendencies over the years. He's _immune._ For years, he never even spoke to his father; Jughead had built himself such a powerful stone wall, he's pretty sure FP could have died and he wouldn't have shed a tear. And yet here he is, just a few years later, listening to the sobs of a grown man as his own tears slip free.

 

“I know,” FP finally manages to say. “I will.”

 

“Right now, Dad.” His own voice is untempered, wavering. “Call him right now.”

 

“Okay,” FP breathes, “okay. I love you, kid.”

 

Jughead's eyes close. More tears escape. “I love you too, Dad,” he says in a near-whisper. He hangs up and drops his phone unceremoniously on the coffee table, then lifts his hands to his face and breathes into his palms. He's supposed to be done with this. He's not six, and he's not eight, and he's not fucking fourteen either. It's supposed to be _over._

 

(It's never over.)

 

He stays there for twenty minutes, perched on the edge of the sofa with his head in his hands, until a soft voice interrupts his swirling thoughts.

 

“Juggie?”

 

His head snaps up, eyes seeing bright splotches at the sudden introduction of light, and he turns quickly. Standing in the entrance to the hallway is Betty, her face tired but her eyes alive with concern. “Shit,” Jughead swears, scrambling to his feet. “Did I wake you up?”

 

She shakes her head and walks toward him, folding herself easily beneath the waiting arm that he automatically outstretches. “No,” she yawns, resting her cheek against his collarbone. “I had to pee, and you weren't there. Is everything okay?”

 

For a moment, Jughead considers lying; _yeah, just couldn't sleep._ But it's Betty, and she'll see right through him, so instead he just tightens his arms around her and says “no” into her temple.

 

Betty pulls back slightly, her hands on his shoulders. “What?” she frowns. “What happened?”

 

Jughead lets go of her and steps back, flicking off the lights that he'd turned on when entering the room. “Dad phoned and he was being really weird, asking me about Mom and about the night she left and what happened after. Stuff … stuff that we don't talk about, him and I.” He leads Betty down the hall and turns into their bedroom; in the darkness, she squeezes his hand.

 

“Is he okay?” Betty prompts, full as always of the ever-present innocence of a child with two functioning adults. She's walked her own pathway of burning coals, that he knows, but a lack of domestic stability was not a part of that.

 

“I asked him if he wanted to drink,” Jughead tells her as he climbs into bed. “He said yes, and I told him to call his sponsor.” He pulls the comforter up to his chest and stares at the ceiling.

 

Betty lays down on her side, facing him, and frowns. “But that's … that's a good thing, right? That's what he's supposed to do? Call his sponsor?”

 

“He should've done that first,” Jughead mutters, “but he shouldn't have _had_ to. It's been years. It's been over.”

 

Another silence falls, but this time it's Betty and he doesn't feel the same anxiety creep in that he had with his father. He's prepared to close his eyes and drift off to sleep, but then Betty opens her mouth, makes a noise of hesitation, and ultimately says, “That's bullshit, Jug, you know that right?”

 

He frowns and turns to look at her. She's propped on one elbow, an apprehensive expression across her face, one lip drawn between her teeth nervously.

 

“What?”

 

“It's not over for him,” Betty presses gently. “It doesn't work that way. I can't pretend to know what it's like to be in your shoes here, or _his,_ but I _do_ know what it's like to have something that lives in your head like that. Sometimes it's way in the back, and I can have my happy face, and things are fine.” She casts her eyes down, very briefly, then looks back up, and now they're filled with nerves. “And sometimes it's bigger, right at the front of my head. And I still have my happy face.”

 

Jughead stares at her, mind racing.

 

She softens her expression and reaches over to touch his hands. “I just mean that - they're always going to be there, his demons. He manages them, he deals with it, but that's the whole _point:_ he deals with it. He’s _been_ dealing with it. Sometimes the glass cracks a little. But it doesn't mean that it’s going to shatter.”

 

Betty squeezes his hands and gives him a small, wordless smile of reassurance. Jughead lets himself live in that moment for a few beats longer, his head feeling clear and muddy, heavy and light. She's right, of course, and he _knows_ that. He has enough of his own darkness to comprehend what she's saying, and as a grown adult, he _does_ understand.

 

But here, with things like this, with his father, Jughead can't help but be hopelessly seven years old again. He wants what the little boy inside him wants and has wanted since that terrible morning: normalcy.

 

“I know,” he says quietly to Betty, lifting her hands to his lips and kissing them softly. “I just want things to be normal. And I thought - it was like maybe things were _finally_ going that way. I know that's naïve.”

 

“If you're waiting for normal, that'll never happen,” Betty says softly. “You get something different, but sometimes that can be even better.” Her lower lip disappears again, and she pulls their entwined hands to touch her stomach. “I know it's really early, but maybe - if he's going through a rough time, maybe knowing he's gonna be a grandpa would cheer him up,” she suggests.

 

Jughead freezes. _Cheer him up._ He hears the underlying sentiment loud and clear: _maybe that'll keep him straight._ And he won't do that, not to his kid. That's not anyone else's burden but his.

 

And privately, in the darkness, as the silence moves forward and Betty’s breathing evens out once again, Jughead confronts another reaction: he's jealous, overwhelmingly so, at what her suggestion implies. Maybe his father would stay sober for his unborn grandchild, but not for his own son. Maybe _somebody else_ would make the difference; and it’s true, he realizes, because he’s just not good enough, one more time.

 

.

.

.

 

Because Jughead’s life isn’t full of enough parallels, the day after his father’s late-night phone call, he finds himself walking across Madison Square Park to have lunch with Fred Andrews.

 

It was planned the week before, when Jughead had received a text from Fred noting that he was coming into the city to meet with some new suppliers and pick up what Jughead strongly suspects to be discarded clothing from Archie and Veronica’s apartment. Fred wasn’t intending to linger, but the idea of lunch had been proposed, and Jughead has never been one to turn down food. He’d picked a place called Almond mostly for its proximity to his work and also because it serves what seems essentially to be a giant plate of the best macaroni and cheese Jughead’s ever eaten in his life. With Betty’s stomach being so touch-and-go, their dinners of late have been primarily lighter fare, and his taste buds have been longing for some heavy, empty carbs.

 

Fred is waiting outside when he walks up, his hand shoved in the pockets of the same worn denim jacket that Jughead’s seen him wear since he was thirteen years old. He gives a wave at Jughead’s arrival, and when they near each other, it transitions to a hug.

 

“Hey Jug, how are ya?” Fred greets. “You look so official.”

 

Jughead looks down at his (not ripped, not well-worn) jeans and (pretentious, too well-fitting) sweater, half-hidden beneath an old sherpa jacket. “Full employment is strange,” he agrees, holding the door open for Fred. “Ready? You have to get the mac and cheese at this place, Fred, it’s so good.”

 

Fred ends up ordering a reuben sandwich and fries, much to Jughead’s disapproval. He is momentarily distracted when the half-pints they’ve ordered for drinks arrive, and ends up staring at the amber liquid for a tad too long, because Fred taps his fingers bluntly on the table and says, “What’s going on, Jug?”

 

Jughead chuckles and drags his glass toward himself. “Nothing gets past you, huh?”

 

“You haven’t been good at hiding things since you were twelve years old, kid.”

 

Jughead figures that that’s probably a fair assessment. Fred has what Jughead likes to affectionately call _the dad thing,_ a sixth sense of sorts, and even when he’s put in effort to hide his problems from friends, it’s never been enough to escape Fred.

 

“Dad called me the other night,” Jughead says. “But it was - not good. It was really late, like two in the morning, and he was rambling about the day Mom and Jellybean left and how he thinks we all deserved better than him.”

 

Fred sighs but says nothing; instead, he takes a sip of his own beer - the irony, Jughead realizes, is abundant - and leans back in his chair.

 

“He wasn’t drinking, but I think he was close. I had him call his sponsor.” Jughead grimaces. “And I just feel so … I dunno, torn about it. I know he’s sick. I know it’s not a thing that _ends,_ but I just - things have been going so good, I guess I hoped maybe it had.”

 

“And you’re frustrated,” Fred supplies. “At him and at yourself, for getting your hopes up?”

 

Jughead stares at him. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

 

Fred nods slowly and rests his elbows on the table. “I get it, Jug, I do. Me and your dad - he’s been my best friend for my whole life, always will be, even when we don’t talk much. His dad had similar problems, and I watched FP fall down that same hole. The number of times I tried to pull him out - I can’t even tell you, Jughead, because I don’t even know.”

 

Jughead’s eyes close, slowly. “I think I know the feeling.”

 

“You do,” Fred agrees. “In the end, I think the only way I was really able to help him was by helping _you._ And it took me a long fuckin’ time to be okay with just that. Lots of guilt. But in the end, Jug, sometimes things are the way that they are, and you gotta accept it. Despite all of the effort in the world, in the end, people need to help themselves.”

 

“I get that,” Jughead says, casting his gaze down to his beer. He doesn’t even want it anymore, isn’t sure why he ordered it in the first place, and pushes it to the side. “What I _don’t_ get is why.”

 

Fred frowns. “Why now, you mean?”

 

Jughead shakes his head. “No. Why … in the first place.” He inhales slowly, holding his breath at the top, and begins to very gradually allow its release. “You said my grandfather was the same way. And Dad. Am - am _I?”_ he asks, his throat choking slightly.

 

“Hey. _Hey.”_ Fred moves his chair closer to the table, its legs screeching against the floor unceremoniously. “No. Look, Jug: I know this is gonna sound weird to say, especially about somebody who is wrapped in leather jackets and motorcycle boots like FP is, but he’s - he’s mush. Pure mush, emotionally. He’s extraordinarily sensitive, always has been, and he’s never really been able to manage that by himself.”

 

“Alcohol,” Jughead supplies, realization hitting him. “Drugs.”

 

“Sure.” Fred nods. “There’s nothing wrong with being sensitive; and yeah, maybe you’re a little the same way. But you’re different, too; whatever it is, for whatever _reason_ it is, you don’t need those things like he does. Nobody ever taught him another way.”

 

His words sink in for a moment. Jughead wonders if Fred is hearing himself, or if he doesn’t quite realize that the ‘whatever reason’ is _him,_ Fred Andrews, and Archie, and everyone else that’s picked up a piece of Jughead over the years. It’s _whom_ ever, Jughead knows, not _what_ ever.

 

Meanwhile, Fred begins to speak again. “He does love you guys, Jug,” he says gently. It feels like a reminder. “You and your sister. It killed him when Gladys took her away. It broke him, as much as anything can do that to someone who’s already halfway broken.”

 

He sighs again and shifts uncomfortably in his chair. Jughead continues to stare.

 

“Having kids is - when you have them, you’ll get it, but when there’s this person that’s really _you,_ in a small way, and they’re just walking around autonomously out there, it’s heavy. It’s a big responsibility - logistically of course, but emotionally too, and FP could never really reconcile it. But when you started talking to him again, and when he found Jellybean, that made a big difference. It’s been really, really good for him.”

 

More silence passes, and Jughead says, “Yeah, I agree with that.”

 

Fred nods, relaxing slightly, and takes another long sip of his drink. “Look, Jug, I’m not gonna sit here and tell you how to deal with your relationship with your dad. Hell, I’ve known FP my whole life and I’m still trying to manage that. But you’ve _both_ gotten something great out of this in the last few years, and I think you’d agree with _that,_ too.”

 

.

.

.

 

Later, at dinner, as Jughead is relaying his day to Betty over a plate of zucchini noodles and ground turkey, he has another realization.

 

“I need to talk to Jellybean,” he says suddenly, pausing with his fork halfway to his mouth.

 

Betty peers at him with mild concern. “To talk about your dad?” she guesses. At his nod, she smiles and says, “I think I can still make it to the seven o'clock yin class at the closer studio, to give you some privacy.”

 

“You don’t have to, Betty,” Jughead says, catching her hand. “I don’t - it’s fine if you’re here.”

 

“I could use the stretch anyway,” she shrugs, standing and pecking his lips. “Gonna go change.”

 

Fifteen minutes later she’s gone, and Jughead is sitting on their couch with his laptop open to the Skype application. He’d just cleared the time with Jellybean, who had seemed pleasantly surprised that he was the one to ask for a video chat (admittedly, it is usually his sister that prompts their conversations). Somehow, he’s nervous as his cursor hovers over the ‘call’ button, and his heartbeat quickens when he presses down.

 

The familiar blotchy tones of the Skype ringtone are heard, and immediately, Caramel hops up to sit next to Jughead’s leg. He pets her slowly as he waits for Jellybean to answer. When she does, her hair is bright purple, and Jughead is only marginally taken aback.

 

“Nice hair,” he comments by way of greeting.

 

“Nice hat,” she retorts automatically. “Wash it much?”

 

He chuckles, then palms his beanie and tugs it off. “Actually, no,” he replies. “Wanna smell it?”

 

Jellybean’s nose wrinkles. “So _this_ is what I was missing all those years,” she comments dryly. “What’s up, Jug?”

 

“Should be asking you that.”

 

She shrugs, seems to readjust her seating in whatever chair she’s perched in, and then begins to tell him about school. She’s still at Ohio State, just finishing up undergrad, and looking at doing a gap year of traveling with a friend before pursuing possible graduate work. The trip would begin in - where else? - Ohio, and then progress eastward.

 

“-which reminds me, Jug, if you guys are around in July I might be in New York.”

 

His ears perk up. He hasn’t seen Jellybean in person in probably around a year, since she was last in town with a friend of hers, and even then it had only been for a few hours. “That would be great,” he says earnestly. “I’ll be around.”

 

Jellybean smiles. “Cool.”

 

He returns it, gingerly, then clears his throat. “Not to abruptly change topics, but have you heard from Dad lately? FP,” he clarifies, unsure how she prefers to address him.

 

A distinctly uncomfortable expression crosses her face briefly, then as if catching herself, she hurriedly responds, “Sorry. I just always feel like I’m on eggshells with you about … parent stuff.”

 

Jughead winces, but before he has to speak again, she continues.

 

“Yeah, he sent me an email the other night. It was sort of rambling and basically the gist of it was that he was sorry that things ‘ended up the way they did’. I asked him what he meant, and his reply just said ‘everything’. I was gonna call,” she adds, chewing her lower lip, “but I’m on this weird tightrope when it comes to him, and I don’t know what I would have said.”

 

Jughead swallows, feeling sort of ashamed. He knows that his behaviour is a big part of why she feels that way, both with regard to himself and FP, and he makes a vow to be less outwardly judgmental. He doesn’t need to be the cause of a barrier between Jellybean and FP; there are plenty of other reasons that that could be the case. “Yeah,” he finally says. “He’s going through a tough time, I think. You should, though. You should call him.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah,” he confirms. “He’d like that.”

 

.

.

.

 

The building is five stories, shorter than he anticipated it being, with a facade made of faded red bricks and cracked stone. His father lives on the second floor, unit 2H, according to the hastily jotted scribbles on the piece of paper that is stuffed in Jughead’s pocket. He’s been carrying it around for a week, ever since he’d videochatted with Jellybean and encouraged her to call their father. It wasn’t lost on him that he should be following his own advice, and finally, after dwelling on it for what is a shameful amount of time, Jughead had texted his dad and arranged a good time to come visit.

 

He’s never been to FP’s apartment before, mostly because he lives in Albany and FP is typically eager for any excuse to come to the city. This time, though, Jughead feels like he should be the one to make the extra effort.

 

He steps toward the building entrance, buzzes 2H, and answers in the affirmative when FP’s staticky voice gruffly asks, “That you, kid?”

 

Once he’s granted access, he ascends a flight of stairs, takes a few steps down the hallway, and finds himself in front of the door to what he assumes to be his father’s apartment. He raises his fist to knock, but just as his knuckles are about to make contact, the door swing open and his father’s smiling face appears.

 

“Hey, Jug,” he greets, giving him a brief hug. “Thanks for coming.”

 

“No problem, Dad.” Jughead steps inside and looks around. “Nice place.”

 

He means it, too; it’s pretty clean, far cleaner than Jughead remembers their trailer ever being, and there are framed pictures of both Jughead and Jellybean set up in various locations around the main room. There’s a decent amount of natural light, but all of the decorations are still characteristically dark, and _yeah,_ this is definitely a bachelor’s apartment.

 

“Thanks. Come on in, sit down. Want a Coke or anything?”

 

“That’s okay, Dad.” Jughead shrugs his jacket off and wanders into the living room. His eyes fall on a recent issue of _National Journal._ It’s definitely not his father’s kind of reading, and Jughead has the sneaking suspicion that FP only has a copy because of an article that Jughead wrote for this particular issue.

 

FP sits down in an armchair. “So Jug, before you say anything, I just want to apologize again for calling last week. I don’t know what came over me, but afterward I called Roger and he talked me through it. Next time I _promise_ I’ll call him and not you, and I’m sorry.”

  
The words come out in a rush, his face slightly red. Jughead swallows hard at the sight of his father’s embarrassment and feels his own shame rise again.

 

“Dad…”

 

“I promised you I’d stay clean, Jug. And I have for years, I promise. Weak moments, yeah, but I haven’t slipped up. I never wanted you to worry, and I still - I still don’t. And you don’t have to. I swear.” His eyes twitch, the lids fluttering anxiously, and then there’s a brief flash of something else, too: fear.

 

 _Of course._ Jughead feels like his head has been hit by an anvil, Roadrunner-style. He’s scared, too, just like Jughead is, of falling off the wagon and losing all of the gains he’s made over the last few years. Jughead opens his mouth to respond, but he’s wordless suddenly, as if this epiphany has come and washed away his ability to speak. FP’s expression changes from fearful and anxious back to ashamed, and it’s this that breaks Jughead’s heart.

 

He gets it, sort of; he wouldn’t want to be in his father’s shoes, trying to justify himself once again to a person whose respect he shouldn’t have had to earn over and over. But the embarrassment and the shame aren’t helpful, and Jughead knows that, too. Obviously, FP feels as though he can’t - or shouldn’t - talk to Jughead about his issues, and if he is his father’s primary support system, that doesn’t leave a lot of options. Jughead can very clearly recall telling his father specifically that he doesn’t want to discuss it, that he’s not dealing with _it_ anymore; at the time, he thinks it’s probably what they both needed, but now, perhaps there is room for some latitude.

 

“It’s okay, Dad,” Jughead says slowly, staring intently at his father in the hopes that his sincerity comes across. “I know I’ve said shit in the past about … about not calling, and I know last week I even said that you should call your sponsor. And you _should,_ he’s more … equipped, but I want you to know that if you ever want to talk to me, you can. I support you, Dad, and I will always pick up. _I_ promise.”

 

FP’s head ducks, and Jughead can tell by the reddening of his father’s ears that he’s fighting tears. Jughead doesn’t address it; hell, he’s feeling a little emotional himself. Instead, he sends a quick text to Betty, and receives her response granting him permission nearly instantaneously.

 

“You’re going to be okay, Dad. And so is Jellybean.” Jughead clears his throat. “And so am I. You don’t have to worry about fucking us up anymore. We’re adults.” He takes a deep breath and nudges his foot against FP’s, prompting him to lift his head. “Plus, I’m the one that needs to worry about that now, Dad,” he says, placing careful emphasis on each word.

 

FP looks confused for a moment, then his eyes narrow ever-so-slightly. “Jughead, are you…”

 

“We haven’t told anyone yet, but … Betty’s pregnant,” Jughead confirms, not bothering to stop the wide smile that he knows has appeared on his face. God, he’s going to love telling people this news; he can _feel_ it. “It’s really early still, so things - something could still happen - but it looks good so far, and yeah.” He beams. “You’re going to be a grandfather.”

 

FP’s jaw lowers slowly, pausing at the bottom. And then all at once, he grins, jumps to his feet, and exclaims, “What?! Are you serious? She’s pregnant?!”

 

Jughead laughs as he’s pulled up and into his father’s embrace. “Yeah,” he confirms, breathing into the dusty flannel covering FP’s shoulder. “We’re gonna have a baby, Dad.”

 

“That’s so great, Jug. That’s so fucking great.” FP pulls back, his eyes glistening with tears, still grinning. “I’m so happy for you and Betty. How is she doing?”

 

“It’s pretty rough right now,” Jughead admits. “She’s sick a lot. I feel terrible for her, but I’m also so excited at the same time. Nervous, but excited.”

 

FP nods fervently, gingerly lowering himself back on the chair, and clasps his hands together. “I remember. I was terrified. But I shouldn’t have been,” he declares, resting his elbows on his knees. “I had an incredible son. And he’s going to be an incredible father.”

 

Jughead’s eyes burn with momentary heat; he blinks rapidly, ushering away the tears that threaten. He smiles gratefully, biting the corner of his lip, and says, “Thanks, Dad.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back, I think. 
> 
> Going to try to finish this over the next little while. Updates _will_ be slower than they typically are with my stuff, but better late than never, right?


	3. three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not a medical professional. I have done a lot of research and made great efforts to be as factual as possible, but just like the law in "wise men say", medicine exists to serve the plot here.

_What do I do when my love is away?_   
_(Does it worry you to be alone?)_   
_How do I feel by the end of the day?  
(Are you sad because you're on your own?)_

  * The Beatles



  


The quiet buzzing of her cell phone on the nightstand wakes Betty at six o’clock in the morning. She rolls to her side, blindly slides her thumb to turn the alarm off, then lays still for a moment with her eyes closed. The first signs of springtime sunlight are warming the room, that much she can tell, and they have Betty itching to go for a run.

 

She’s eleven weeks now, and while she knows it’s still plenty early enough for something to go terribly wrong, she’s nearing the end of her first trimester and that seems generally to set her doctor at ease. The worst of her morning sickness is finally waning, after what has seemed like months of feeling nauseous nearly everyday, and while Betty is still far more tired than she usually is, she _needs_ to get her feet back on the pavement.

 

Besides, now that it’s late April, the snow has melted from New York’s sidewalks and early morning runs are a bit less precarious. She can finally feel the brisk morning air on her face and the familiar, pleasant burn in her legs without worrying about slipping on the ice. It’s always a fear with winter running, despite the proper footwear she has, but now that she’s pregnant there’s a little extra caution in the back of Betty’s mind. Not overly so, of course - she’s not going to _break -_ but … a little voice.

 

That said, even though Betty has come to what she considers to be a nice, cautious, balanced approach to Life While Pregnant, Jughead is another story altogether.

 

Just as Betty is about to slide her feet off the bed, Jughead’s arms slide around her and pull her backward until her back is flush against his chest. His lips pillow against her shoulder, one palm splays across her abdomen, and he murmurs, “Stay.”

 

She loves him, she really does. She loves him a _lot._ He’s sweet and funny and sexy, and he’s been so kind and caring with her, from sitting on the bathroom floor while she vomits to this _thing_ he’d started doing with his thumb on her abdomen: a slow stroke, just back and forth, then up and over, which Betty had realized embarrassingly late was him tracing a heart over her (barely showing) belly.

 

It’s pathetically adorable, and Betty knows that her baby is going to have the best daddy ever.

 

The problem is that Jughead is, and always has been, a little _watchful_ over her. And generally, Betty has appreciated this immensely. She knows she’s given him reason enough to be vigilant with her overall well-being; in this way, _he_ has truly been _her_ gift. But now, she’s pregnant, and he’s being pretty up-front about his protective instincts.

 

And by _up-front,_ she means blatant, and by _blatant,_ she means annoying.

 

“Just going for a quick run,” she whispers, edging her feet away even as she relaxes her back into him.

 

Jughead tightens his grip. “No,” he pouts. “It’s not even light outside. It’s too-”

 

“Jug,” Betty warns, using a careful, measured tone as she unwraps his arms from around her and sits up. “I love you, but if you finish that sentence with the word _dangerous,_ I’m going to kill you.”

 

He stares blankly for a moment, then sighs and looks up at her sheepishly. “Sorry. I know it doesn’t seem like it, but I’m not _trying_ to drive you crazy. It’s just that I worry about you in the dark mornings _anyway,_ and now that you’ve got precious cargo...”

 

Betty smiles at him, then pecks his lips and climbs out of bed. “It’s getting lighter in the mornings now. But I’ll be careful,” she promises. “I want to keep running as long as I feel up to it. Before you know it I’ll be too big.”

 

She changes into leggings and a long-sleeved shirt, keenly aware of Jughead watching her. Ever since they’d first started to become more intimate, he hasn’t exactly made his attraction to her a secret - tempered though it always is by his (usually correct) assessment of her present inclination to accept his advances. And while Jughead is absolutely not the kind of leering caveman that Betty has encountered on many occasions, she’s definitely aware of his interest when he wants her to be. Lately, he’s been particularly keen, always touching her and habitually dragging his eyes across her body with a look of what almost approaches reverence. For the most part, Betty has been feeling gross, tired, and bloated, and she has to admit that his attention has been welcomed, even if she’s not been up to reciprocate.

 

Betty pushes her feet into running shoes and sits on the edge of their bed. When she leans over to tie them, Jughead’s arms wind around her waist, and he tugs her slightly backward.

 

“I can’t wait,” he murmurs, dropping his chin over her shoulder. He kisses just beneath her ear. “I mean, I know it’ll be uncomfortable, and I don’t want _that,_ but I can’t wait to meet the little brussel sprout.”

 

Betty giggles. “I see you got an app.”

 

Jughead releases her, then flops backward on the mattress. “I did,” he confirms. “Based on my downloads and browser history over the last few weeks, Google probably now thinks I’m a pregnant woman.”

 

She laughs at that; she’s been getting exclusively pregnancy and motherhood-related targeted ads for a while now, and it does make her feel better to know Jughead’s in the same boat. “Well, I’ll expect you to have a lot of opinions on breast pumps when the time comes,” she comments.

 

He tugs the covers up over his shoulders. “Noted,” he yawns. “Have a good run, babe.”

 

Betty finishes tying her shoes, then feeds Caramel before quietly leaving the apartment and heading out on the pavement.

 

.

.

.

 

It’s Saturday, but Betty’s been off the circuit for awhile so she does her usual weekday morning distance instead of the longer weekend route she’d devised. And admittedly, she’s a lot more tired by the end of six miles than she usually is, even walking the last quarter-mile back to their apartment. She knows it’s a combination of the pregnancy zapping some of her energy as well as having been out of routine for awhile, but her doctor has told her not to push herself too hard, and Betty is going to listen.

 

She slips back into the apartment afterward and hits the shower, letting the warm water rinse the sweat from her body. Today is a shampoo day, so she washes her hair too, then twists it, still wet, into a topknot.

 

Jughead is awake again when she walks into their bedroom, though clearly only _kind of,_ judging by the hazy look on his face. His eyes follow her path to the dresser, enlivening with her every step. He drags himself up on his elbows and lets out a low whistle when she drops her towel, and Betty is not at all opposed to the implication in his reaction.

 

Betty decides to tease him a little, and selects a pair of lacy thong underwear that Jughead has proved to be a fan of in the past.  She leans down to dress herself, but his voice, lower and more gruff than usual, makes her pause.

 

“I don’t think you need to bother with that, Betts,” he drawls, sitting up further. “I’m just gonna take it off right away anyway.”

 

She bites her lip and looks at him sidelong, hoping the angle makes her body look intentionally curvy rather than rounded. “Is that so?”

 

“That’s the plan,” Jughead says matter-of-factly. He shifts backward slightly to make room. “C’mere.”

 

Betty sets her underwear down and walks toward him slowly, enjoying the way his gaze falls across her body. “Bold statement, Juggie,” she teases, climbing onto the bed and placing one knee on either side of his hips.

 

He reaches up to touch her, but she pushes her fingertips against his chest forcefully until he falls, looking unexpectedly delighted, with his back on the mattress.

 

“Just so you know,” she breathes, tugging his boxers down, _“I’m_ the one with the plan.”

 

* * *

 

Her plan (and its aftermath) is top of mind a couple days later as Betty is on the way home from work. She’s still in a mild state of shock, but Jughead - _her_ Jughead, Mr. _‘I don’t subscribe to societal norms’_ himself - had a pretty bouquet of spring tulips delivered to her work, for apparently no reason at all other than because, as the note had said, **_I love you_ ** _._

 

Betty is beginning to think she might be having a baby with an honest-to-god romantic.

 

She’s hoping to beat Jughead home so that she can put on his favourite lacy underwear set and be waiting when he comes in the door. The set is lavender: it’s a flimsy thong and a bra that leaves very little to the imagination on a good day, and will very soon probably not fit at all. Every single time she’s worn it, he’s been absolute putty in her hands, and that’s exactly how she wants him tonight.

 

Her low-heeled boots fall heavily on the pavement as Betty rushes to make the walk light to cross the street. She checks her phone once she reaches the sidewalk, pulling it out of the outside pocket of her purse, and is pleased to note that it still appears to be well within the bounds of time whereby she’ll be able to make it home to surprise Jughead.

 

Betty smiles at a food truck vendor on the corner and then turns down the quieter block where her apartment building resides. She gets her keys out as she approaches the door, already anticipating the look on Jughead’s face when he arrives home. Betty lets herself into the vestibule of the main building and is about to unlock the inner door when a throat clearing to her right startles her.

 

It’s Archie, sitting on the floor with a duffel bag between his feet and a miserable look on his face. “Hi Betty.”

 

“Archie!” She pulls the strap of her purse higher on her shoulder and offers him a hand to help him to his feet. “What’s wrong?”

 

Once he’s standing, Archie leans down and picks up his duffel bag. “Veronica threw me out. I was hoping I could crash on your couch.”

 

.

.

.

 

Because Archie looks fairly distraught, Betty decides to have him delay his explanation until Jughead gets home so that he only has to tell the story once. She sits him down on the couch, unearths a beer from the back of the fridge - she’s obviously not drinking, Jughead doesn’t drink alone, and nobody’s been over for awhile, so she hopes it’s still good - and hands it to him before sitting down in an armchair.

 

“Thanks, Betty,” Archie mumbles. He cracks it open, takes a swig, then stares at the top of the bottle. “If I’m gonna be in your guys’ way, I can get a hotel.”

 

Betty makes a _tsk_ sound with her tongue, then gently says, “I’m sure it’s not that bad, Archie. You and I both know that Veronica has a bit of a flair for the dramatic; she’ll probably be calling you anytime now.”

 

He shakes his head miserably. “I don’t know about that.”

 

She bites her lip, then excuses herself to go change out of her work clothes. Once Betty’s in her bedroom, she sends two hasty texts: one to Jughead, saying **_V & A got in a fight and Archie’s in our living room with a suitcase_ ** _,_ and the other to Veronica, simply asking, **_Are you okay?_ **

 

Neither replies before Betty’s finished changing, so she takes her phone and moves back out into the living room to sit with Archie until Jughead comes home. It’s slightly awkward; they’re all friends, but Archie has always prominently been _Jughead’s friend_ or _Veronica’s husband._ By contrast, she and Archie have not really spent that much one-on-one time together, and while they get along great and she likes him a lot as a person, she’s pretty sure they don’t have a lot in common.

 

“I should try to quickly defrost another chicken breast for dinner,” Betty says, after a minute of silence. “I was going to make chicken and potatoes in sort of a lemon cream sauce, is that okay?”

 

“That sounds great, Betty,” Archie replies quietly. “If it’s a hassle, I can just run over to that Burger King a block back. I’m not picky. If me being here in _general_ is a problem, I can also try to get a hotel-”

 

Betty rises to her feet again. “Don’t be silly,” she interrupts, placing what she hopes is a comforting hand on Archie’s shoulder. “You’re not getting a hotel in Manhattan when we can absolutely accommodate you here. Besides, I’m sure this thing with Veronica will blow over in no time.”

 

He doesn’t reply, instead dropping his head and letting out a long sigh. Betty takes that as permission to leave, so she ducks into the kitchen and sets about placing a frozen chicken breast in water, hoping that it defrosts enough to join the other two that are already in the fridge.

 

Her cell phone vibrates just as she’s finishing washing her hands in the sink. It’s from Veronica: **_At my parents’, I’ll call you in a bit._ **

 

 **_Okay,_ ** Betty quickly types, **_love you V._ **

 

There’s no response from Veronica after that, so Betty pours herself a glass of water and heads back out to sit with Archie. She’s already racking her brain, trying to think of what to talk about: should she ask him about … football? What does he like other than that? She could ask about work. _Yeah,_ that seems safe.

 

Just as she’s sinking back down into the armchair, readying herself for a series of conversation-starters, the apartment door opens and Jughead walks through.

 

_Thank god._

 

Betty rises to her feet and goes to greet him. She pecks his lips and takes his messenger bag from him when he shrugs it off. “Hi,” she says quietly. “He’s in the living room.”

 

Jughead nods in understanding and squeezes her hip. “Arch,” he says loudly as he kicks off his shoes and walks toward him. “What the hell happened?”

 

Betty hangs Jughead’s bag up by the door and then follows him into the living room. She perches on the arm of the chair that he’s plopped down in and watches as Archie leans hard into the back of the couch and groans audibly.

 

“It’s kinda complicated,” he says, leaning forward again, “and sort of a long story. A few weeks ago I was approached by an NYPD detective who has been investigating Veronica’s father for fraud.”

 

“Oh my god,” Betty says, feeling instantly terrible for her friend.

 

Archie nods earnestly at her. “Yeah, that’s what I said too. It sounds like Hiram has sort of been flirting with some not-very-legal activities for a while now.” He looks directly at Jughead. “Bad shit. So the detective basically asked me to spy on Hiram, do some digging whenever I’m over at Veronica’s parents’ place.”

 

Jughead drops his head. “Archie.”

 

“I know.” He visibly swallows. “I said no, because my relationship with Ronnie’s parents is strained enough as it is, but then the detective said it’s possible that she could be in _danger,_ and I couldn’t just do _nothing.”_

 

Betty closes her eyes. She’s pretty sure she knows where this is going, and it makes her heart hurt to think of her friends in this kind of situation.

 

“Anyway, to make a long story short, I was snooping around in her father’s study when we were there for dinner yesterday and I got caught.”

 

Jughead winces. “By Hiram?”

 

Archie shudders. “No, I think I’d be actually dead if that happened. By _Veronica._ I wasn’t going to lie to her, so I told her everything, and we got in a big fight.”

 

“Lying by omission is still lying, Archie,” Jughead points out.

 

“I _know,_ but Jug, Ronnie is in _danger._ What would you do if a detective told you Betty was at risk?”

 

The comment makes Jughead visibly uncomfortable. His hand curls around Betty’s. “Whatever needed to be done,” he answers.

 

Archie nods quickly. “Exactly. Exactly! Why doesn’t she understand that? I - _exactly.”_ He runs a shaky hand through his hair. “She stayed the night at her parents’, then when I got home from work today, she’d changed the fucking locks on me. Wouldn’t open the door. Told me to find somewhere else to sleep for awhile.”

 

“I’m going to go start cooking,” Betty says quietly to Jughead. She gives Archie a little smile and steps out of the living room.

 

In the kitchen, as she’s preparing dinner, Betty can hear Jughead tell Archie, “The couch is yours as long as you need it.”

 

He doesn’t ask for her permission, and she’d never deny him this even if he _did -_ it’s Archie, and Betty knows how deep that well runs - but Betty’s not overly thrilled at the idea of someone sleeping on their couch for any prolonged period of time. She really likes Archie, and while she _is_ sure Veronica will forgive him quickly, Betty had really been hoping to spend more of these precious last weeks with just Jughead before they start having to tell people and the pregnancy becomes less _their little secret_ and more _oh-everyone’s-so-happy._ Her desire is compounded by the fact that that time is already being cut a little short: Jughead has a work trip to D.C. scheduled for the beginning of next week, and while it’s only a couple of days, Betty wishes he could stay.

 

It’s going to be fine, she tells herself. Veronica will get over this in no time.

 

.

.

.

 

She doesn’t, and by the time Jughead leaves for the airport on Sunday evening, Archie’s constant presence is already wearing on Betty.

 

At first, it was sort of nice to have him there. Since the pregnancy happened, she and Jughead have been staying in more than usual, partly because she’s been so tired and partly to avoid having to answer any questions about the morning sickness that had plagued much of her first trimester. As an unfortunate result, they haven’t seen as much of Archie and Veronica as both she and Jughead would like, and Archie staying with them presented somewhat of an opportunity for the guys to hang out.

 

A silver lining, Betty had thought then, something good to come out of Veronica’s fury.

 

But after four days, the messy living room - covered as it is with Archie’s clothes, beer and soda cans, and the odd chip bag - has begun to get to Betty. Archie’s strange mixture of both odd hours and terrible timing has also meant that not only have she and Jughead not had sex since his arrival, but they’ve barely had any time alone at _all,_ save for the ten minutes in the morning once Betty gets back from her morning run. Even when the three of them are together in the living room, she finds herself specifically avoiding affection with Jughead so as to not make Archie feel uncomfortable or sad about his own relationship. When contrasted with the uber-affectionate Jughead that has been around since they’d found out they were pregnant, it’s a bit of an adjustment.

 

(She knows it’s been less than a week, and she out of everyone is certainly not reliant on physical urges. But Betty is finally, _finally,_ not feeling nauseous constantly or oddly bloated, and _come on,_ she’d had a _plan.)_

 

Nevertheless, Archie is Jughead’s family and her friend, and Betty knows that being there for him during a trying time is the right thing to do. With Jughead taking care of the bonding and emotional stuff, Betty leans heavily into cooking: she makes sure that every dinner he has at their apartment is a good one, and that there’s always something to take for lunch if he so desires. He might have a sad heart, but he will not have an empty stomach.

 

The other problem with Archie’s omni-presence is that Betty is slightly concerned about the impact it might have on her relationship with Veronica. She knows, logically, that Veronica would never think that she’s taking sides by having Archie at her apartment - it’s not really _her_ choice - but still, Betty feels guilty. It’s even stranger to have to go into her bedroom and speak quietly when on the phone with Veronica, particularly if the topic of Archie is likely to come up.

 

Which, of course, it has. Veronica is both furious and sad at the same time: frustrated with her father’s apparent inability to keep on the straight and narrow (it is, Betty learns, apparently not the first time that he’s been under investigation, though no charges have ever been laid), angry that Archie hadn’t told her immediately about the detective’s request, and yet completely miserable without her husband around. Betty knows it’s only a matter of time before she asks him to come home; she’s said essentially as much, though her need for a little more time had followed in the same breath and now Betty has even less of an idea of just how long Archie is going to be squatting in her living room.

 

Complicating everything is the fact that neither Veronica nor Archie know about her pregnancy. She and Jughead had been planning to tell them in person shortly - she only owns so many loose-fitting tops, and there is a maximum to the number of false excuses that one can make when refusing wine - but now that they’re in relationship crisis mode, that has been put on hold.

 

Luckily, Archie seems to be casually unobservant in a way that many men Betty’s known in her life have also been, and there seems to be little risk of him discovering her pregnancy. She could probably walk around with her positive pregnancy test stuck to her rounded stomach and he wouldn’t be the wiser.

 

Jughead leaves for the airport in the late evening, well after supper. Betty tries to accompany him to the airport, feeling oddly clingy, but he refuses.

 

“Get some sleep, Betts,” he tells her softly as they hover in the doorway of the apartment.  In the living room, Archie is playing video games.

 

“I will.”

 

Jughead peers at her as if he doesn't believe her and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. “I know all this has worn you out a bit, and I love you for putting up with it.”

 

Betty nuzzles her cheek into his palm. “Your family is my family,” she tells him.

 

Instead of replying, Jughead kisses her softly, and it’s only when he pulls away that he quietly says, “I can’t wait to _be_ a family,” and rubs the back of his fingers against her abdomen gently. “With you and the little lime.”

 

“Your app kicked in,” Betty whispers, smiling into the kiss that she gives him.

 

He nods and picks up his bag from the floor. “I’ll text you when I land,” he promises. “Love you.”

 

“Love you too,” Betty calls after him. She watches him until he disappears into the stairway, then turns and goes back into the apartment.

 

Archie is still on the couch, deeply engrossed in what seems to be _Grand Theft Auto,_ and without looking up he asks, “He gone?”

 

“Yes.” Betty watches the TV for a few moments; Archie’s character crashes into a bar and hops out of the car, then shoots a bystander.

 

She does not understand the appeal of this game.

 

“I’m going to have a bath and go to sleep,” she says, feeling a little bit like she’s talking to herself. “Goodnight.”

 

“Night,” Archie echoes, his thumbs flying on the controller.

 

.

.

.

 

She lays awake for two and a half hours with Caramel sprawled across her legs, until Jughead texts her that he’s landed.

 

 **_Now go to sleep, Betty_ ** _,_ he demands.

 

She rolls over and obeys.

 

.

.

.

 

The next day starts in a fairly typical manner: early-morning run, followed by a shower and quick breakfast before work. Betty puts a piece of quiche in the fridge for Archie, who is still snoring away on the couch, and leaves a note for him indicating the quiche’s location on the coffee table. She sets a pot of coffee to brew just before she leaves - her caffeine intake has been sadly limited to one cup a day, which she saves for once she gets to the office - then grabs her bag and heads to work.

 

The day passes as it normally does, beginning with some editing meetings, pausing for lunch, and ending with writing time at her desk. She texts Archie to see if he's going to be around for dinner, receives an affirmative response, and makes a stop at the grocery store on the way home. Betty isn't sure if he likes taco salad, but her stomach is still slightly wary of heavy meals, so he's going to have to grin and bear it.

 

She gets home just before Archie, changes into leggings and a plain t-shirt, then heads to the kitchen with the family recipe for taco seasoning already running through her head.

 

But like so many of her plans lately, this one is also abandoned halfway through.

 

Betty is mid-preparation when she feels a sudden wetness between her legs. She pauses with her hand still on the spatula that she's using to brown the ground beef; her stomach feels fine, and there are no cramps, so her initial instinct is that _this is fine._ It’s just some discharge. She's been filled in on this. _Normal._

 

She pushes around another section of ground beef for a few seconds, trying to refocus her attention on dinner, but she can’t ignore the unsettled feeling in her chest. With a sigh, Betty turns off the burner, sets the spatula down, and heads to the bathroom anyway. She pulls her leggings down, then her underwear, and -

 

Blood, bright red and seemingly everywhere.

 

 _Panic,_ instantly.

 

A strangled noise rips from her throat and her eyes fill instantly with tears. The worst comes immediately to Betty's mind: she's miscarrying. She'd halfway prepared for this mentally at the beginning; she had, after all, read the statistics. But now it's so late in her first trimester - she was supposed to be basically out of the woods. It was supposed to be _okay._

 

Betty grits her teeth and screws her eyes shut. _Calm down,_ she tries to tell herself, _freaking out won't change anything._

 

Easier said than done.

 

She opens her eyes. Step one: she needs to get to the hospital. On the way, she can call Jughead.

 

First, Betty digs an old pad out of the back of the bathroom drawer, used primarily for the nights at the beginning of her menstrual cycle when she finds her flow to be heaviest. She quickly pulls her leggings back up - they're stained, but she can't bring herself to care - then rushes out of the bathroom.

 

Archie is standing in the hallway, a concerned look on his face. “Betty, I heard a noise, are you okay?”

 

The soft tone of his voice rips another sob from her throat, and she shakes her head with newly blurred vision. “I'm bleeding. Have to go to the hospital,” she chokes, pushing past him and grabbing her purse.

 

“What? Bleeding? Did you fall?” Archie follows her, slipping his shoes on while she does the same. “Wait, I'll come with you.”

 

She very briefly considers telling him _no, it's okay,_ but then he's there anyway, crowding her out into the hallway and using the spare key they'd given him to lock the door behind them.

 

In the elevator, Betty tries desperately to calm her racing heart. One of her hands curls into a fist, hoping that the old habit will help. When it doesn't, it feels a bit like her world is falling apart.

 

“Betty,” Archie is saying as he guides her off the elevator and through the foyer of the building, “try to breathe. Tell me what's wrong. You're bleeding? Did you hurt yourself?”

 

She shakes her head quickly, gulping in air, but it's not until they're outside and he's hailing a cab that Betty manages to get out, “I'm pregnant.”

 

.

.

.

 

The ride to the hospital goes by in a haze. The cabbie, seemingly detecting a sense of urgency, winds deftly past busy streets and through lower-volume blocks in order to make it to the hospital more quickly. Betty spends the drive pressing redial in a futile effort to get hold of Jughead, who she imagines must be at a dinner event with his ringer turned off. He’s normally beyond easy to reach, answering her calls right away even when she has the most mundane of questions for him, and Betty considers it to be some kind of terrible irony that _now,_ when she needs him, he’s away from his phone.

 

Beside her, Archie is anxiously tapping his fingers on the plastic side of the pay-pass credit card machine that’s mounted behind the front passenger seat.

 

“No answer still?” he guesses when Betty draws her phone back from her ear for the umpteenth time.

 

Betty shakes her head. “I think his phone is on silent.” Her fingers tremble as she redials.

 

Archie is watching her hands. “Is there someone else I can call?” he asks. “Your mom?”

 

Briefly, Betty considers the suggestion; this is definitely a situation where she wouldn’t turn down the presence of her mother. However, while she knows Alice Cooper would be down to the city as quickly as her car would allow, Riverdale is still a fair distance upstate, and that’s not going to help her right now.

 

She shakes her head. “Not yet.”

 

“Veronica?” Archie proposes. “I don’t know if she’ll pick up my calls, but I can try to reach her.”

 

This isn’t exactly how Betty had hoped to tell her best friend that she is expecting, but if she can’t have Jughead or her mother by her side, Veronica and Archie are the next best thing. “Okay,” she tells him, her chest tightening at every recitation of Jughead’s voicemail message.

 

They arrive at the hospital moments later. Archie pushes money at the cab driver and leaps out of the backseat. He’s on the phone with Veronica - Betty is preoccupied with trying to get out of her side of the car, and only catches “Ronnie, _don’t_ hang up” - but he’s right back at her side as soon as the door closes.

 

Once inside, Archie whisks her to the front reception. She’s given forms to fill out and told to take a seat, but manages to be directed toward an examination room mercifully quickly. She stands up at her name; Archie smiles reassuringly at her.

 

“I’ll wait here for Veronica. And I’ll keep calling Jughead.”

 

Betty nods; that makes the most sense. She’ll probably be here soon, and if she’s going to be examined, it’ll be less awkward for it to be with Veronica present instead of Archie. “Thank you,” she says softly, then follows the nurse.

 

She’s first sent to a far corner area of the main floor to get an ultrasound. Betty is moderately familiar with this process, but because she hasn’t had a high-risk pregnancy, and given that she has no history of miscarriages or complications, they haven’t actually had a proper ultrasound beyond a dating scan when her doctor had first confirmed the pregnancy.

 

To her great relief, the ultrasound tech - a nice girl who can’t possibly be older than twenty-two and whose nametag reads _Amelie -_ tells her that the baby is moving. The elephant resting on Betty’s heart shifts, providing partial relief, but it’ll be the physician reviewing the scans that will be able to tell her why she was bleeding to begin with.

 

After the ultrasound, a nurse comes to lead her to an examination room. She’s given a gown to change into and then briefly reviews some of the relevant medical facts: she’s twelve weeks pregnant, no history of complications in her family that she’s aware of, but she’s bleeding anyway.

 

“Any cramping?” the nurse asks, guiding her to lay back on the exam table. When Betty shakes her head, she says reassuringly, “That’s a good sign. The doctor will come in and do a pelvic exam and look at the results of your ultrasound. He’s just with another patient, but he should be available very shortly.”

 

An old, familiar anxiety settles in Betty’s stomach. “He?”

 

The nurse nods. “Yes, Dr. Metzstein. He’s one of our best.”

 

 _It’s fine,_ Betty tries to tell herself, _this is the least of your worries,_ but the hot sting of tears threatens anyway and she asks, “Is there a female doctor available? I have a history of - um - I really prefer a female doctor.”

 

The nurse grimaces, seeming to understand without Betty needing to elaborate. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” she says apologetically. “The on-call physicians are all men today. I will be in the room the entire time, but unfortunately he will be the one doing the examination.”

 

“Okay,” Betty breathes, blinking rapidly. “That’s okay, I’ll - be … um, can you get someone to go to the waiting area and bring my friend here? His name is Archie, about six feet, late twenties, has red hair. Please.”

 

The nurse nods and presses a button on her pager. Quickly, a shorter woman appears - an aide, Betty guesses. The request is relayed to her, and she nods in understanding before disappearing.

 

The nurse touches Betty’s shoulder kindly. “I’m going to prep you for the exam, okay?”

 

Betty nods and lays back, wondering if Jughead has been called yet. She takes a few moments to gather her wits; _it’s okay,_ she keeps mentally repeating, and is about to lift her legs at the nurse’s direction when there’s a knock on the doorway.

 

From behind the privacy curtain, Archie calls, “Betty?”

 

“In here,” Betty says, sitting up on her elbows and keeping her legs down as he enters. “Thanks for coming.”

 

He shakes his head to dismiss her gratitude. “Veronica’s on her way, I thought you wanted me to wait out there?”

 

Betty looks away from him and lays her back flat again, but she reaches her hand out. “The doctor is a man,” she explains in a small voice, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. “Usually we have a woman, and if it has to be a man, Jughead is always-” she stops, breathes through a lump in her throat, and then continues. “Can you hold my hand?”

 

Realization sparks in Archie’s eyes instantaneously. “Of course,” he says, coming to stand at her side. He slides his palm against hers and squeezes reassuringly. “Do you know if…” he trails off, but his eyes flick to her stomach, and Betty understands the question.

 

“The ultrasound tech said the baby is moving.”

 

“That’s great,” Archie says earnestly. “That’s so great, Betty.”

 

She nods, swallowing hard. “I still don’t know what’s wrong.”

  
“We’ll find out right away,” Archie assures her in a gentle tone. “Hey, there’s the doctor.”

 

Betty lifts her head. A short man who looks to be on in his late forties enters; he has kind eyes, with tired lines around them, and he smiles at her. He talks to her politely for a few moments, but when he sits down on a stool by her feet, Betty’s heartbeat quickens anyway. She bites her lower lip at the feeling of his hands pushing her knees apart and sucks in a sharp breath.

 

_It’s okay it’s okay it’s okay it’s-_

 

A sudden pressure on her hand distracts her. “It’s okay,” Archie murmurs, squeezing her fingers. “You’re okay.”

 

.

.

.

 

The baby is okay too, as it turns out.

 

Shortly after Veronica arrives (dramatically interrupting the doctor first with loud heels and then by kissing Betty’s cheeks and grabbing her free hand; it’s Veronica, so Betty had expected nothing less), Betty is diagnosed with placenta previa, which the doctor tells her basically just means that the placenta is implanted partially over her cervix. The associated bleeding has occurred fairly early, but because she’s only twelve weeks, there’s apparently a lot of time for things to shift. If it doesn’t, she’ll need to deliver via caesarean section. She’s told to make an appointment with her obstetrician and then sent home to rest.

 

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were pregnant,” Veronica says through tear-filled eyes. Affectionately, she adds, “You bitch.”

 

Betty smiles. “Sorry,” she apologizes. “We were going to tell you and Archie right away, I swear.”

 

“I forgive you,” Veronica says, combing her fingers through Betty’s hair. “But only because you’ve housed my husband for the last week.” She looks past Betty to Archie. “I can probably take him home now.”

 

An audible sigh of relief can be heard from Archie’s direction. “Really?” he breathes, standing and walking around the bed to meet Veronica.

 

Veronica grimaces, and Betty recognizes the look: guilt. “Yes,” she replies, reaching her hands out to Archie. “I still wish you’d told me first, but I know you only had my best interests in mind.”

 

“I did,” Archie agrees earnestly, pulling her into his arms. “I did. Oh god, Ronnie, I missed-”

 

She interrupts him with a kiss, and Betty watches them awkwardly for a few moments before the placement of their hands starts to become vaguely inappropriate, and she clears her throat. “Anyone wanna help me with hospital underwear?”

 

.

.

.

 

Veronica and Archie accompany her home. While Archie leaves to pick up to-go sandwiches at a cafe near Betty’s apartment (the ground beef that’s still on the stovetop is definitely no longer a viable option, and they’d missed dinner), Veronica picks out comfortable pajamas for her to change into.

 

“B, a little _baby,”_ she gushes, holding out a pair of cotton shorts. “I cannot wait to buy little baby clothes, they’re all so adorable! _God,_ I can’t believe you and Jughead are having a _baby-”_

 

Betty bites her lip. “Me either, some days,” she admits. She lifts her shirt and shows Veronica her slightly rounded stomach. “But it’s in there.”

 

Veronica smiles and reaches her hand out. “May I?” she asks.

 

“Sure.”

 

She places her palm flat against Betty’s abdomen, marveling, “It’s so _hard.”_ She ducks her head so that it’s parallel to her hand. “Oh little baby Cooper-Jones, causing trouble already,” she sighs. “You must take after your father.”

 

Betty giggles. “Yeah, I-” She stops at the sound of her phone ringing. “Jughead must have finally looked at his phone. I need to get this,” she says apologetically.

 

“Of course, of course,” Veronica says, backing up to the door. “I’ll go see if Archiekins is back yet.”

 

Betty watches Veronica slip out of the bedroom, closing the door behind her for privacy, then she picks up her phone. Before she can even say anything, Jughead lets out a flurry of words.

 

 _“Betty,_ what the _fuck_ is going on, you have no idea how many missed calls I - is it the baby?! Is everything okay?”

 

She sinks down on the bed and closes her eyes, a smile spreading across her face. “Yeah,” she answers. “Everything’s okay.”

 

.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in this chapter arriving. I may be working on this one as a secondary priority to other fics, but I promise I _am_ working on it.


	4. four

_I remember that time you told me_  
_You said, "Love is touching souls"_  
_Surely you touched mine_  
_'Cause part of you pours out of me_  
_In these lines from time to time_

  * Joni Mitchell



  
  


Of all the decisions that Jughead’s had to make recently, _this_ is one of the more difficult ones: whether to have a pre-dinner sip of chocolate milk directly from the carton or to be less of an animal and instead dig out a painstakingly-packed water glass from one of the already-packed moving boxes. On one hand, he knows that drinking from the carton is kind of gross, but he’s the only one that drinks chocolate milk and he’s not particularly interested in washing and re-packing another glass. Not after today, which he and Betty have already spent packing: first carefully wrapping all of their dishes and kitchen utensils in paper, and then securing them in perfectly-proportioned boxes.

 

Jughead _hates_ moving; it’s incredibly inconvenient.

 

Unfortunately, he’s gotten his girlfriend pregnant, and since they live in a one-bedroom apartment they’ve had to make alternative arrangements. Those arrangements are a nice two-bedroom apartment in Little Italy with a surprisingly positive rent-to-cockroaches ratio. They don’t move for another week, but with work and broad social commitments, they’d decided to get a head start.

 

Jughead decides to drink from the carton, but just as he’s reaching into the fridge, Betty calls his name from the bedroom.

 

He withdraws his hand, silently promising the chocolate milk that he’ll return, and makes his way down the short hallway. Laid across their bed are two different outfits: one is a pair of shorts and a floral top, and the other a casual ribbed cotton dress in an army green colour that he vaguely recognizes. At the foot of the bed stands Betty, wearing nothing but a nude-coloured thong and a matching bra that is barely managing to contain her new pregnancy breasts.

 

“What’s going on, baby?” he asks, coming to stand beside her. He slides an arm around her waist and rubs the swell of her stomach with his thumb.

 

She’s just over twenty-four weeks pregnant and definitely showing now; she has a softly rounded belly that is inarguably due to _his baby_ being inside, which Jughead still thinks is the most fascinating thing in the world. It’s also late July, so her days of hiding beneath sweaters are over, and they’ve had to tell most people about their news.

 

“Which do you think I should wear?” Betty asks, pointing to her two options. “I like the dress better, but I’m like, _clearly_ pregnant in it. It hides nothing. Whereas that top is all flowy and kind of … fluttery, I dunno. You wouldn’t maybe notice at first glance.”

 

Jughead presses a kiss to her temple. “Wear what makes you comfortable, Betts. Though I do remember that dress; your ass looks incredible in it.”

 

Betty rolls her eyes at him, but she leans into his touch anyway when he moves his hand to squeeze her ass. “You’re so predictable.”

 

He kisses her and slides his other arm around her, turning her so that they’re fully facing. “And you’re so beautiful,” he counters, grabbing the other cheek playfully. “This ass, these boobs-” he pauses to move one hand up to her chest, fingers slipping against the skin that threatens to spill over the lacy cups. “I love them.”

 

“Mhm. I’ve noticed.”

 

Jughead drops his hand to rest on her stomach and kisses her again. “How’s our little ear of corn today?”

 

Betty laughs and squirms away from him. She reaches for her dress and pulls it over her head. “The ear of corn is good,” she informs him. “We’re all safe.”

 

He nods, quietly watching as she pulls her hair from the neckline of the dress and, with the aid of a mirror, resettles it around her shoulders. His eyes fall to the bump that’s now covered by light cotton and he exhales slowly.

 

The fear that Jughead had felt weeks earlier had been paralyzing. He’d been in D.C. at an _Atlantic_ dinner event with his phone on silent so that he could focus on impressing one of his editors, in a bid to get reassigned to a section of the company with a bit more creative leeway. After, when everyone had began scattering, he’d hazarded a glance at his phone - and almost immediately felt like he couldn’t breathe. There were missed phone calls, _dozens_ of them, not only from Betty, but also from Archie and even Veronica.

 

(He’d immediately phoned Betty back; at that point, she was home from the hospital - the fucking _hospital -_ with Veronica and Archie by her side, and the baby was okay. He’d started looking up flights home, not giving a shit about the rest of his pre-planned work weekend, but Betty had stopped him from pulling the trigger on a schedule change.

 

“I’m fine,” she’d said. “Everything is okay. I’ll tell you all about it when you get back. Don’t worry.”)

 

It _had_ been okay, but he’d felt awful anyway, knowing that she’d been at the hospital, terrified, while he was schmoozing some higher-ups with a glass of scotch in his hand. Once he got home, after holding Betty tightly and letting his relieved tears leak onto her skin, Jughead had thanked Archie and Veronica profusely.

 

(“It was all Archie,” Veronica had said, in a rare surrendering of the spotlight.

 

Archie had been equally dismissive. “Stop, you guys are family. And you’re going to _be -_ I can’t believe it, Jug.”)

 

At a follow-up visit with Betty’s doctor, Jughead had learned that the placenta condition she had was partial, which was apparently better than full, though no less terrifying to him. She’s had several scans and visits since, more than were originally scheduled, and according to the doctor, everything looks “pretty good”. The placenta hasn’t shifted significantly enough, so the likelihood of her requiring a cesarean birth is increasing by the day. He doesn’t like that idea much, but it does seem like it’s the best of many potential bad situations.

 

There also hasn’t been a significant recurrence of bleeding since then apart from some mild spotting, which has been encouraging. The doctor hasn’t banned them from sex, but Jughead - after doing probably too much independent research - has been avoiding penetrative sex anyway after reading that pelvic rest is often recommended. This has annoyed Betty, who’s been able to persuade him to break the very particular abstinence more than a few times. At the same time, they’ve managed to satisfy each other more than fine with hands and mouths, and it’s a bullet that he’s willing to take for her safety and the safety of their baby.

 

“Next week the baby is going to be a rutabaga,” he says, drawing his line of sight up to Betty’s face. “I’m not really a fan of root vegetables.”

 

“We had rutabagas last week,” she comments, fastening a necklace around her neck. “You ate it fine.”

 

He frowns. “We did?!”

 

“I have to get vegetables into you somehow,” Betty teases, turning to face him. “Don’t need my baby-daddy dying of scurvy.” She twists to the side slightly and frowns, her demeanor shifting. “Okay, be honest. Is this ‘oh-what-a-cute-bump’, or is it more ‘can’t-tell-if-she’s-pregnant-or-fat’?”

 

“The first one,” Jughead replies instantly. “Definitely, _definitely_ the first one.”

 

Betty twitches her mouth at him, like she’s not sure if he’s being honest or lying for her benefit. She steps into his arms anyway and rests her cheek against his shoulder. “I love you,” she tells him quietly.

 

“I love you,” he says back, kissing her head. He can feel her belly pressing against him; it’s the best thing in the world. “So fucking much.”

 

As he holds her, Jughead glances at the yellow envelope on their dresser and closes his eyes against the impulse to open it. Inside is the sex of their baby, sealed by an ultrasound tech a couple of weeks earlier. They haven’t decided if they’re finding out or not, so until they do, the answer is inside, waiting. He doesn’t really care; he already knows that any nursery they make is not going to be decorated in an overly pink-or-blue scheme, so the only thing that knowing would do for him is narrow down the huge list of baby names that they’re working with.

 

Realistically, Jughead is still stuck on _healthy._ That’s the only thing he _really_ wants to hear.

 

“Ready for dinner?” Betty mumbles against his shirt. “When do you want to leave?”

 

“We’re close to the restaurant,” Jughead shrugs. “And it’s not like Jellybean is going to be there half an hour early. We’ve got a couple minutes.”

 

She squeezes his arm. “Okay. Well, maybe I’ll put on another layer of mascara.”

 

“I dunno,” he drawls innocently, moving his hands from her back to her hips and then lower. He scrunches her dress in his fists, lifting it upward until his palm gains access to her bare skin. “I had a different idea.”

 

Betty’s pretending to be her trademark mixture of annoyed and amused, but the hitch of her breath tells him that she’s actually very interested in his idea, so when she taps his shoulders, he hooks his thumbs in the sides of her thong and drags it down her legs. “Juggie, you don’t have to-”

 

“I want to, baby,” he informs her, guiding her to lay at the edge of the mattress. He sinks down onto his knees, raises a calf over his shoulder, and rests his cheek against her thigh. “Just a little appetizer before dinner.”

 

.

.

.

 

They’re meeting his sister at a small Italian restaurant in the West Village that has incredible baked ziti. Jellybean is already there - she’d texted Jughead as much - and has apparently snagged one of the few outdoor tables. Jughead is grateful for that; the weather is beautiful, and since he’s been working a lot lately, he’s found himself missing the city air.

 

When they turn around the corner to the block where the restaurant is, Jughead spots Jellybean almost immediately. She’s gotten a blue streak in her dark hair since he’s seen her last, and it sticks out like a beacon against the dark facade of the building. He waves and tightens his grip on Betty’s hand, then glares at a passing wannabe-rapper who clicks two mix CDs in Jughead’s direction. In response, the man makes a crude gesture toward Betty, who is either oblivious to the situation or actively pretending not to notice. Jughead, too, grits his teeth and turns his head away. He knows that escalating the interaction into a conflict is the opposite of what Betty would want, but it still takes all of his willpower not to take a swing at him in broad daylight.

 

Jellybean stands and waves them over to the table she’s gotten. “Hi guys!” she says, smiling warmly. “Long time no see.” She moves to give Betty a quick hug hello but freezes once Jughead has shifted out of the way. She gives Jughead an awed look; he grins back.

 

“Hi, JB,” Betty greets with a knowing smile.

 

“No fucking way!” she exclaims, tugging Betty into a tight embrace. “Oh my _god!_ I’m going to be an auntie!”

 

Jughead smiles and nods, flicking his eyes down to Betty’s baby bump. “Yeah,” he confirms. “Turns out birth control is harder than it seems.”

 

Betty swats at his arm, her face growing red. _“Jug.”_

 

Jellybean seems not to care about the implication and is instead still giddy with excitement. “Here, here, sit down. When are you due?”

 

They sit; Betty opens her mouth and says, “November,” just as a waitress comes to deliver glasses of water.

 

“Wow. That’s really great, you guys, I’m so happy for you!”

 

Jughead’s grin widens. “Thanks, JB. We’re pretty excited about it.”

 

“Did Dad cry when you told him?”

 

“Basically, yeah. So much for being a tough biker guy.”

 

Betty laughs softly. “You’re all marshmallows at heart.”

 

Jellybean shrugs. “That’s probably accurate, but I’m still going to try to maintain my cool-girl thing.” She keeps glancing at Betty’s stomach as if it might disappear; Jughead watches Betty carefully, hoping that it’s not making her uncomfortable.

 

It doesn’t seem to be. On the contrary, Betty leans backward in her chair and sighs in what seems almost like contentment. “The weather is so nice,” she comments.

 

“You look _so_ good, Betty,” Jellybean informs her. “Like, it’s such an adorable little bump, and you look like a queen. My niece or nephew is going to be _so_ cute. God, wait ‘til I tell -”

 

She pauses suddenly, her eyes darting to Jughead. His jaw tenses slightly, knowing what the last part of her sentence is going to be, and he shakes his head.

 

“Don’t tell her, JB.”

 

Her eyes are wide. “Jug-”

 

He shakes his head again, interrupting. “Please don’t.”

 

Jellybean drops her head a little and sighs, then looks at him. “Fine. I won’t,” she promises. “But just … think about it, okay? For me. She’d want to know.”

 

 _And I wanted to know where she was for ten years,_ Jughead thinks, _but you can’t have it all._

 

Betty’s hand finds his beneath the table and squeezes. She’s silent, but her intention is clear, and he swallows hard.

 

“I’ll think about it,” he says breezily, then changes the subject.

 

.

.

.

 

After dinner, Jughead, Betty, and Jellybean venture across the street for dessert (frozen yogurt). Betty gets a neatly-proportioned helping of low-fat cherry and covers it with fruit, Jellybean gets chocolate pieces on chocolate yogurt with chocolate syrup, and Jughead puts a little bit of cookies-and-cream into the cup before filling most of the rest with nearly every kind of topping available.

 

Betty makes a face at him, but after they part with Jellybean (having promised to keep her apprised of any baby-related news), she still kisses him on the subway home, so he figures he hasn’t disgusted her too much.

 

By the time they get to their apartment, she’s both quite tired and slightly overheated, and somehow they end up sprawled together on the couch with glasses of iced tea balanced atop the box of books that is currently acting as their coffee table. Their air conditioning has been acting up lately, and since they’re leaving soon neither of them has very aggressively pursued its repair. Now, Jughead is regretting that a little.

 

Or he was, until Betty had emerged from the bedroom in a pair of running shorts and a tank top with spaghetti straps and no bra.

 

Jughead had removed his own shirt to cool down but then had draped Betty across him like a blanket anyway. After a little shuffling, she’s now laying with her back against his chest and their legs entwined. He’s lifted the hem of her tank top to expose her belly, and as they re-watch old episodes of _The Good Place,_ his thumbs are stroking her skin.

 

“Did I tell you that your mom called me the other day?” Jughead asks, his mind full of muddled, jumbled thoughts.

 

Betty sighs, letting out a quiet stream of air that Jughead has come to recognize exclusively as relating to Alice Cooper. “No. What did she want?”

 

“She wanted to give me shit about us not being married.” He drums his fingertips on her abdomen and watches as onscreen, Chidi tries to convince Jason not to reveal his true identity to Tahani. Some days, he wishes he were in _The Good Place;_ there seem to never be any mother-in-laws there. “And about us not _planning_ on getting married, since I knocked you up and all.”

 

Betty reaches for the remote and presses ‘pause’. “Ignore her,” she says, reaching for and then squeezing his hand. “If it was that important to me, we would be.”

 

“I know. It’s just - she made it seem like I was letting you down, and -”

 

“You are _not.”_

 

“I know that, too.” Jughead strokes her forearm. “I think I’m just sick of everybody’s opinions. Your mother’s, Jellybean’s …”

 

“Oh.” Betty is quiet for a moment, then says, “I know JB would like you to tell your mother about … well, anything. But you don’t have to do something that you don’t want to. You don’t owe her anything.”

 

Jughead nods against her hair. He gives her as much of a hug as he can manage in their current position, then resumes the episode and kisses her shoulder. “I love you so much, Betts,” he murmurs.

 

“I love you too,” she replies, then turns the volume up. “Now _shh.”_

 

They watch until the episode ends, then play the next one in quick succession. Jughead is only half-paying attention; he’s still stuck on Alice and Jellybean, preoccupied by the apparently freely-given advice of everybody else that’s not him or Betty. He knows it’s not going to end with their pregnancy, either - the practice of actually parenting will only invite more of the same. He wishes sometimes that they could turn everyone else off, and live their lives without any interference - no parents, no siblings, no bad memories and ultimately, no expectations.

 

 _It’s a nice dream, anyway,_ he thinks.

 

“The baby is moving a lot,” Betty says after a prolonged, comfortable silence. “Can you feel it yet?”

 

Jughead flattens his palms to her stomach and tries to focus, but there’s nothing. “Not yet.” He sighs in mild disappointment and drops a kiss to her ear. “I can’t wait for that.”

 

“Should be anytime,” Betty tells him softly. “I hope so, anyway. It’s so … odd, but incredible, and I want you to feel it.”

 

Jughead wants that too, so badly that his heart feels like it almost hurts. “Me too,” he echoes. His palm slides over her stomach in a small circle. “I still can’t believe my baby is in here.”

 

Betty’s head rests back against his shoulder; her eyes are closed. _“I_ believe it,” she says sleepily. “Based on how poorly my clothes are beginning to fit, _something_ is growing in there. And based on how much the baby likes to move at three in the morning, it’s definitely yours.”

 

He chuckles and leans up to press a quick kiss to the side of Betty’s neck. “Sorry,” he replies, grinning. The idea of a little baby that already takes after him in some manner - even in this highly coincidental, tiny way - is stirring something inside of him.

 

“Yeah, you sound sorry.”

 

“I am,” he insists, only half-lying. He wants her to get the rest she needs, obviously, but - well, it’s _his baby._ He wonders, not for the first time, which of them the baby will look more like, and strokes his hands over her belly again.

 

Betty yawns. “You’re very touchy-feely,” she comments, wriggling a little in his arms.

 

“Oh.” Jughead stops his movements and withdraws his grip. “Sorry. Is that - I’ll stop.”

 

 _“No,”_ she whines, grabbing his wrists and dragging his hands back to her. “I didn’t mean stop. I was just … observing.”

 

“I just - I can’t explain it,” Jughead stammers. He shakes his head and sits up a little. “When I see your bump, I … I feel like a caveman, or something.” He slides his palms up her abdomen. “It’s like my body knows the baby in there is mine and I need everyone _else_ to know that _you’re_ mine, too.”

 

He swallows, moderately nervous about admitting that; Betty is, of course, a modern independent woman, and he would never in a million years deign to assume that she belonged to _anyone._

 

Betty exhales audibly. “Hmm.”

 

“I don’t actually think that you _belong_ to me,” Jughead adds hurriedly. “It’s just a stupid impulse thing. You’re obviously not _mine,_ like, I -”

 

“I don’t mind being yours,” she cuts in softly, placing one of her hands on top of his. She rubs her thumb against the back of his. “We’re both yours. But you’re both mine, too.”

 

Jughead closes his eyes. “And we’re his?”

 

“Or hers.”

 

He nods slowly, then opens his eyes to see that Betty has turned her head to look at him, and is smiling. He returns it. “Yeah.”

 

They share a brief kiss, then Betty resumes her position laying against him, head tilted to face the TV. “I’m gonna miss this apartment.”

 

Jughead will too, in an odd way; he hadn’t really wanted to move here to begin with, but the location and the building has really grown on him over the last little while. Besides, it’s the place that his child was conceived: nothing will be more special than that. There’s been a lot of _that_ in this apartment, now that he’s thinking about it: all the times that they came home a little tipsy and fell into bed together, or when he’d gotten a little handsy on the couch and one thing led to another, or the few occasions that she met him at the door in her best lingerie with a look in her eyes that told Jughead plainly that today, she needed to reclaim something, and he was just along for the ride.

 

He’s loved them all.

 

So Jughead hums his agreement, then slides his hands up and lifts Betty’s shirt off of her head completely.

 

“Can I help you?” Betty asks in an amused tone, sitting up with an arm crossed over her breasts.

 

Jughead slips the straps away from her arms and tosses the shirt across the room. “Nope,” he answers, turning her gently away from him again. He drags her arm down from her chest, kisses the back of her neck, and covers her breasts with his hands.

 

“Juggie, the window is open,” Betty points out, but her voice is already airier. She arches her back slightly and sighs lightly.

 

“Nobody can see,” he tells her, which is true. They’re facing away from the window and half-reclined; at best, someone might see the tops of his shoulders, and he couldn’t give less of a shit about that. He tweaks her nipples and grins when her hand slides between her legs. He quickly follows it with his own, replacing her fingers; he wants to be the one to do this.

 

“You’re such a tease,” Betty accuses, groaning in frustration. “You with your hands all over me constantly, but when I want you to fuck me, you won’t.”

 

Jughead sighs and removes his hand from her shorts. “Betty, we’ve been over this. The _baby’s_ safety -”

 

“Which the doctor said wasn’t going to be impacted by sex.” She sits up, bringing her legs to the edge of the couch, and stares at him. “I know you read stuff on the internet, and I love you for being worried, and for doing research. But not everyone’s body is the same.”

 

 _Ugh._ Logically, he knows that’s true, that he should listen to their doctor and to _Betty,_ whose body is the one in question. But -

 

“Unless you don’t _want_ to have sex, which is completely fine,” she continues.

 

He half-snorts and looks down to his shorts, where a significant tent has formed. “That’s _not_ the problem, Betty.”

 

“Then _Jughead,”_ Betty begins, a vaguely threatening edge in her tone, “I am going to go to the bedroom now. I’m going to take off the rest of my clothes and now that you’ve gotten me all worked up, one way or another, I am going to orgasm. I’d really like for that to happen with you _inside_ me,” she emphasizes. “But if you want to choose the advice of people on the internet over that of the suite of physicians we’ve seen about this placenta thing, I guess I’ll understand.”

 

She stands and walks away, not sparing so much as a glance over her shoulder.

 

Jughead groans and drops his face into his hands momentarily. _Get over yourself, Jones,_ he thinks. He knows he’s being a little overprotective, but it makes sense to him: why not be cautious?

 

Then, from the bedroom, comes a soft, high-pitched expression of pleasure, and immediately he stands and follows her.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Four weeks later, on a Tuesday in late August, Jughead comes home to find Betty sitting on the kitchen floor in their new apartment in her pajamas, sobbing next to a broken spice jar.

 

With some difficulty, he gets the rundown: Betty had wanted to go for a run (though it’s really a sort of waddle-and-half-jog combo at this point, he’s observed), but none of her sports bras fit anymore. There was something about a built-in shelf that didn’t work - he’s still unclear - and after that she she had decided, in her frustration, to abandon her plans and instead make an early dinner. However, as she had began preparing a salad, Caramel knocked over a picture frame in the living room, which startled Betty and in turn caused _her_ to accidentally push a small jar of dried parsley onto the floor.

 

Apparently, the spilled parsley was the straw that broke the overly-hormonal camel’s back, and so she’s been here, on the floor, for the last twenty-five minutes.

 

Jughead helps her up, biting the inside of his cheek hard to suppress the laugh that so desperately wants to come out, then guides her to the couch.

 

“Just relax here, baby, okay?” he soothes, handing her a tissue. “I’ll go out and get takeout.”

 

“No!” Betty says with unexpected urgency, reaching out and grabbing his wrist. “Stay here.”

 

Jughead frowns, but sinks down beside her obediently. “Are you okay?” He ducks his head to her belly and kisses it. “Are _you_ okay, little eggplant?”

 

Betty rubs the swell of her stomach. “I’m okay,” she sniffs, swiping at her eyes. “I know I’m being silly and overreacting, but I’m tired and my back hurts and I just want to lay with you. I don’t want to think about all my clothes that don’t fit and the stupid parsley and everything else.”

 

“Oh, Betts.” Jughead sighs and rubs her back slowly. “Okay. We’ll order in, then. Just let me go sweep the glass off the floor before Caramel does something stupid in it and we end up at the vet.”

 

She quietly nods her permission for him to rise. He does so rather quickly, already dialing their new favourite Thai takeout restaurant as he retrieves the broom from the storage room. He gets two orders of pad thai, a bowl of tom kha gai, and four pork buns for delivery, then he sweeps the spilled parsley and pieces of spice jar into the garbage.

 

Jughead walks back to the living room and stands in front of Betty. She appraises him slowly, her eyes raising from his feet to his face, then sniffs almost disdainfully at his chinos and tucked-in shirt.

 

He raises an eyebrow. “Something wrong?” he asks, glancing down at himself.

 

Betty hesitates, then shakes her head, then finally says miserably, “You’re hot.”

 

Jughead chuckles. “Oh?”

 

“You’re hot and I’m a _whale.”_ She hiccups. “And I think I peed a little.”

 

 _Oh, god._ Jughead sighs and goes to her side immediately. He puts one arm around her shoulders and places his other hand over hers on her belly. “You are _not_ a whale,” he states matter-of-factly. “You’re pregnant. You’re growing a person in you. There is a big difference there. And for the record, you’re still sexy as hell. In fact, if it wasn’t for the thing you just said about peeing yourself, I’d be trying to feel you up right now.”

 

That makes Betty laugh, and in turn, Jughead stifles a sigh of relief. “I’m gonna go change,” she says, pushing herself up off the couch.

 

He stands, too - it’s habit, _not_ hovering, regardless of what Betty says - and returns the brief kiss she gives him. “Love you,” he murmurs against her mouth. “Always. Okay?”

 

She nods and brings his hands to her belly. The baby is kicking, and now that he can finally feel it, she’s been trying to have him experience it as much as he can. “I love you too,” she replies softly. She smiles down at her belly. “Baby knows it’s you.”

 

That thought alone makes his eyes nearly well up. Jughead rests his forehead against Betty’s and exhales a shaky breath. “Let’s go away,” he says suddenly.

 

Betty pulls back slightly and tilts her head. “What?”

 

“Let’s go away,” he repeats, rubbing small circles against her stomach. “For a week. I’ll rent a little cabin somewhere and we can just go and relax before the baby comes. Just me and you and the eggplant.”

 

“What about Caramel?”

 

“She can come, or we can ditch her with Archie and Veronica.” Jughead kisses her soundly; when he pulls back, he rests his lips just against hers, and adds, “C’mon.”

 

Betty kisses him again. “That sounds nice,” she agrees. “Let me double-check at work tomorrow. I’m already on the verge with mat leave coming up, but I can probably swing a few days, especially if there’s wifi and I’m still reachable.”

 

“Sounds good.” Jughead rests his head back against Betty’s, and they stand there until she clears her throat.

 

“Okay, I _definitely_ peed myself.”

 

.

.

.

 

Two weeks later, Jughead is sitting in in Adirondack chair on the porch of a little bungalow on the ocean in Freeport, Maine. It’s early September, but the Atlantic breeze is a bit cool today, so he’s wearing a t-shirt and jeans instead of swim trunks. Beside him, dressed similarly in a pair of maternity leggings and a thin sweater, is Betty. Her head is tilted back and her eyes are closed, but her grip is still strong around his hand so he knows she isn’t completely asleep.

 

On his lap is a book of baby names that her mother had sent down to their apartment in Manhattan two months earlier, already annotated with Alice’s thoughts on various entries. Betty had already gone through it and marked the ones she liked; there are very few overlaps with her mother’s choices, which upon his noticing had made Jughead smirk.

 

They still aren’t sure if it’s a boy or girl, but they’ve been using the envelope with that answer as a bookmark. Here, with his fingertips on the seam, the temptation is real, but Jughead can only imagine the carefully measured wrath that his thirty-weeks-pregnant girlfriend would rain down on him if he peeked without her consent, and it’s enough to keep the seam closed.

 

Jughead doesn’t mind some of the names; having grown up with a nickname like Jughead, he’s partial to simple ones like Samuel, James, or Catherine, but he also doesn’t mind a few of the more modern selections. Neither he nor Betty have an especially strong ethnic background from which to draw inspiration, so the book - and others like it - has been useful, even if it did come with a collection of unsolicited advice from Alice.

 

Truthfully, while he’s endlessly curious about their baby’s sex, the thought of finding out has also made him a little anxious. If it’s a girl, much of his inner turmoil can float way, but if it’s a boy, he knows he’ll have to deal with what he’s started to refer to as The Forsythe Question.

 

 _Forsythe._ Gaelic in origin, and meaning ‘honest man’, at least according to the book. Jughead has hated the name his entire life, first because it garnered a fair degree of teasing and then still because of the legacy that it represented. He is the third of his name - Forsythe Pendleton, to be specific - and if he’s living up its meaning, he has to admit that the first two are not exactly shining examples of perfect men. His father has had his fair share of struggles, both self-inflicted and otherwise; and from what he knows, his grandfather was at least partly responsible for the _otherwise._ The tendency toward self-loathing, the imposed isolation from others, the insecurity and relative emotional fragility: all stunning qualities that he knows he inherited from both of the previous FPs.

 

And yet, particularly over the last five or so years, Jughead has started to make peace with those parts of himself. Like Fred had told him a few months prior, the difference made in his case was all about context: the environment he was exposed to, the choices he made, and the people surrounding him. And so maybe, he thinks, given all those right elements, his child could rise even further out of the cycle he’d grown up in.

 

“Juggie?”

 

He snaps out of his reverie and turns to Betty. She’s looking at him with a contented smile on her face. “Yeah, baby?”

 

“This is really nice,” she says softly. “I’m glad we’re doing this.”

 

“Me too.” Jughead squeezes her hand. “Pretty soon, things are going to be a lot less peaceful.”

 

Betty laughs and pats her stomach. “Yeah, no kidding.” She bites her lip. “But that’s okay. I’m so excited to meet him or her.”

 

He smiles at her. She’s been so incredible during this whole process; with a few choice moments left aside, she’s been strong and calm, determined to bring their child into the world with as much love and peace as possible. “Cabbage is already the luckiest baby in the world, and they’re not even here yet,” he tells her. “You’re going to be such an amazing mom, Betty.”

 

She closes her eyes briefly. “Don’t make me cry today, Juggie.”

 

Jughead chuckles. “Sorry.” He looks back at the book on his lap, eyes the yellow envelope sticking out, and asks, “Do you want to find out the sex?”

 

When he looks back at her, the green eyes are open again, wide and full of questions. “Do you?”

 

He hesitates for a moment, then nods. “Yeah. I think I do.”

 

Betty stares at him, then tugs her hand away to push herself up to a more upright seated position. “Okay. Then let’s do it.”

 

His fingertips touch the envelope. “Are you sure?” he asks, and at her nod, he slips the envelope out from between the worn pages. He flips it over and edges his thumb beneath the corner, but just before he tears the crease, Betty speaks.

 

“Wait,” she interjects, reaching her hand out to touch his wrist. “Just before, let’s do - tell me one thing you want for the baby.”

 

“One thing I want?” Jughead echoes.

 

“Yeah.” Betty folds her hands again. “I’ll go first.” Before continuing, she looks out to the ocean, where the waves are whipping in, then back at him. “I want the baby, everyday of his or her life, to feel as safe and loved as I’ve felt since the day I moved into your apartment in Brooklyn.”

 

Jughead’s jaw unhinges ever-so-slightly and his mouth makes a dry popping sound as his lips part unexpectedly. He feels suddenly and overwhelmingly like his ribcage is too tight, and swallows hard to fight a lump in his throat. “Betty--”

 

“Your turn,” she interrupts softly.

 

He stares at her pensively for a long moment, then follows her lead and looks out to the sea. “I them to make their own way,” he says quietly. “Be their own person, without expectation. And yours, too,” he adds with a gentle laugh, “that was a good one.”

 

Betty gets to her feet and shuffles a few inches toward him, then lowers herself down carefully on his lap. He wraps an arm around her side, loving how imposing her belly is in their embrace, and returns the kiss that she offers him.

 

“Okay, now open it,” she says excitedly, pulling back. “Open it, open it, open it-”

 

He laughs at her eagerness, and makes a big show of tearing the envelope with exaggerated slowness. Finally, he pulls the paper out. Written on it in small, block-shaped printing is the word **_boy._ **

 

“Oh my god,” Betty breathes. “A boy!”

 

Jughead stares at the paper for another minute and then lets it fall to his lap, his fingers feeling strangely weak.

 

“I guess that narrows down our names,” Betty remarks, nudging his side.

 

Jughead nods. Then slowly, he says, “About that - I’d like to add one to the list.”

 

.

.

.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for all of the feedback I've gotten so far, it's been really encouraging.
> 
> I am feeling oddly emotional about this chapter and this fic in general at the moment, and so if you are enjoying it and would like to leave a comment, know that I really, really appreciate it. Thanks again.


	5. five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay, again. Hope it is worth the wait!

_He comes in the morning when the air is still,_  
_He races the sun and he always will._  
_We raise up the window and call through the trees,_  
_Oh we'd love to fly with you, Gabriel and me._

  * Joan Baez



  
  


It happens on a Thursday in early November, one week before Betty’s due date.

  
The strange thing about the morning her son is born is that Betty knows it’s going to happen. She’s seen the movies, though she’s also aware that they’re unrealistic: the breaking of a woman’s water, a mad dash to the hospital, and/or (occasionally) a birth in the back of a cab. She’d been prepared for something like that, albeit maybe a bit slower: something at least unexpected, perhaps a contraction during an episode of _Parks and Recreation_ or even at work.

 

However, her baby has been uncooperative in his growth process - already taking after his father, Betty’s been joking - and as a result, she doesn’t have a mad dash in a cab with a panicked partner. She has a hospital appointment and a wristband and a casual Lyft ride to New York Presbyterian.

 

(She still has a panicked partner.)

 

Betty hasn’t been allowed to eat for the last twelve hours, and by the time she and Jughead arrive at the hospital, she’s so thirsty that she feels like her mouth is a desert. At the same time, her stomach is so uneasy with a mixture of nerves and excitement that she’s not sure if she could eat or drink anyway. Jughead, too, is anxious: his grip on her hand is so tight that she’s afraid her circulation will get cut off, but in a strange way she feels comforted by his nerves.

 

“We’re in this together,” he’d told her early that morning, as she laid in his arms for one last quiet embrace. “I love you always, no matter how hard it gets.”

 

His words run through her mind as she’s brought up to the floor where delivery and maternity are housed. Betty signs a seemingly endless amount of paperwork, then she’s dressed in a hospital gown and taken to a room where she’s given an IV and a soft-spoken nurse named Maribella shaves the hair near her pubic bone that she’s let get a little unruly over the last few months of her pregnancy.

 

Jughead stands by awkwardly, responding to texts from their various friends and family members who they’d specifically told not to come to the hospital until after the baby was born. Her mother is being particularly annoying, which Betty counts as par for the course, and eventually Jughead just stops responding.

 

Before long, she’s taken into yet another room where Jughead isn’t allowed to follow, and she’s prepped for surgery. Her doctor is there, along with several nurses and an anaesthesiologist who introduces himself as Dr. Cornell. He spends a couple of minutes chatting with Betty, which sets her at ease; she later realizes that that was the whole point, but she’s still grateful for the patience that he displays. He narrates the process as she’s turned on her side and a needle for the spinal block is inserted into her lower back; it stings at first, but before long everything below her waist grows numb.

 

Everything is so orderly and processed; Betty’s not quite sure how to take it.

 

Jughead enters the room when the preparation for her surgery is nearly complete, now wearing hospital scrubs and looking anxious. He focuses in on her, comes to hold her hand, and immediately tells her, “I love you.”

 

“I love you too,” Betty replies, smiling up at him reassuringly. There’s a short curtain blocking her direct view of her belly, but somehow, she’s no longer nervous. A strange sort of fullness has come over her chest, offset by only a dull pressure where there once was the general aches of late-stage pregnancy, and she just _knows:_ “It’s going to be okay.”

 

He nods, swallowing. “We’re going to have a baby.”

 

“You sure are, in about fifteen minutes,” their doctor tells them. “Hope you have a name picked out.”

 

Betty’s eyes flick up to Jughead’s, and he gives a slight nod. “We do,” he replies, and thirteen minutes later, when the strong cries of a newborn baby fill the room, he cries.

 

Her son is placed on her chest very briefly. He’s red and yelling and wrapped in a white blanket. He has a broad tuft of black hair and light-coloured eyes, and he’s the most incredible thing Betty has ever seen in her life.

 

“Hi,” she breathes, her throat clogged. “Hi, little guy.”

 

Jughead is beside her, one hand on the baby’s back, and someone takes a picture of the three of them, all in tears.

 

“What’s his name?” a nurse asks, her smile obvious even beneath her surgical mask.

 

Betty tries to swallow her emotions to speak but can’t; she’s completely overwhelmed and entirely focused on _him,_ so little and squirming. She knows he’ll be taken away anytime now so that she can be sewn up, and she needs to absorb every single aspect of this moment.

 

So Jughead, still with his head hovering as close to her and their son as he can get, clears his throat. “This is Forsythe Pendleton Jones,” he whispers. “The fourth.”

 

“Wow,” the nurse says, gingerly taking the baby from Betty. “That’s a lot of name for such a tiny little guy.”

 

Jughead squeezes Betty’s hands; both of their gazes are turned toward their son, who is now wailing at the nurse as she sets him down in a hospital bassinet. “Yeah,” he says. “He goes by Cooper.”

 

.

.

.

 

Owing primarily to her cesarean delivery, Betty, Jughead, and baby Cooper spend three days in the hospital before being discharged.

 

For Betty, those three days are spent in somewhat painful recovery, struggling with breastfeeding, and trying to get sleep wherever possible. For Jughead, who has stayed the night on a small pull-out cot, she thinks things are a bit different: he’s tired, clearly, but he’s also not just delivered a baby, so by default he’s been on primary guest-management and entertainment duty.

 

Her parents are the first to come, on the same day that she delivers. Betty’s not entirely sure what she’d been expecting, but her mother’s tears had definitely not been on the top of the unwritten list.

 

And yet, they come: “Elizabeth,” Alice breathes, stepping into their private room and coming to stand beside the bassinet, where baby Cooper is sleeping. “He’s so beautiful.”

 

Betty smiles despite her tiredness; she’s been doing that a lot today, and she’s pretty sure that by the end of the week her cheeks will be sore. “He’s perfect,” she agrees, having never felt like that word was appropriate until now. “Hi Dad.”

 

“Hi sweetheart,” Hal greets quietly, walking up beside his wife. “What’s his name?”

 

Betty glances over at Jughead, who is watching the Cooper family exchange wordlessly, and then answers, “He’s named after Jughead. Forsythe Pendleton Jones, the fourth.”

 

Jughead smiles, slowly.

 

“But we’re calling him Cooper,” Betty adds, reaching over for Jughead’s hand and briefing shuttering her eyes as he squeezes it.

 

“You can hold him, if you want,” Jughead offers, his eyes passing to the nurse who is standing at the foot of Betty’s bed, doing rounds. “Right, they can?”

 

The nurse - Maribella, Betty remembers, the same one who’d helped prepare her for the delivery - nods. “Of course,” she says with a smile. “Just make sure to support his head. Grandparents are usually pretty good, in my experience - not their first rodeo.”

 

“No,” Alice agrees, gingerly lifting Cooper out of the bassinet. “Oh, little darling,” she coos, “you’re so sweet. Hal, look at him.”

 

“He’s got a lot of hair,” Hal observes, then walks over and drops a kiss to the top of Betty’s head. “You’ve done good, Betty.”

 

She smiles. “Thanks, Dad. You should hold him, too. Jug can take a few pictures for you guys, if you want.” She glances at Jughead. “You don’t mind, right?”

 

“No, of course not,” he answers, standing up. “Come sit by the window, Mrs. Cooper.”

 

Betty watches as her parents get arranged for a photo with her son in her mother’s arms. Jughead snaps it, then another, then yet _another_ on Alice’s request, until eventually, her eyes close.

 

.

.

.

 

When she wakes, her parents are gone. She doesn’t feel too badly about having fallen asleep during their visit, aside from having made Jughead deal with the brunt of Alice Cooper, because she knows that visits home will be more frequent from this point on and that her parents will also not hesitate to make the trip down to see them, either.

 

There’s a nurse at her side, gently touching her shoulder. “Betty,” she says. “It’s time to feed again.”

 

“Oh!” Betty blinks; she glances around and doesn’t see Jughead, but then her son is placed at her breast and all questions about his whereabouts fall away. She winces at the general discomfort; it doesn’t _hurt,_ necessarily, but it’s tingly and her breasts feel heavy. Betty hopes the process gets a little easier, or at least more familiar; judging by the way Cooper is eating, she’ll definitely have to get used to it.

 

“Hey, you guys up?”

 

Betty looks up to see Jughead’s head poking into the room. “Just eating,” she explains, and Jughead disappears again with a quick nod before reappearing moments later.

 

He walks up to them and sits on the edge of Betty’s bed, an arm around the back of her raised mattress. “Dad’s outside,” he explains in a soft voice, delicately rubbing his fingertip against Cooper’s leg. “He’ll wait until you’re done.”

 

Betty nods quietly, still staring down at Cooper. They made him, she thinks. He’s _theirs._ He’s half of her, half of Jughead, and all love. “He looks like you,” she decides.

 

Jughead chuckles softly. “You think so?”

 

She looks up at him with a raised eyebrow. “Look at all that hair.”

 

“He’s eating a lot too,” he observes. “Guess he gets that from me.”

 

“Well, he had a long day,” Betty says with a smile. “Being born is a lot of work.”

 

Jughead nods and moves his palm to Cooper’s head, caressing the baby’s soft cheek while he eats. “For both of you,” he agrees. Betty hears a quick inhalation, and when she looks to him, she sees unshed tears shining in Jughead’s eyes. “You’re incredible, Betty. You’re so incredible. This is the greatest gift anyone has ever given me.”

 

She swallows a lump that’s beginning to form in her throat. “You’re the gift,” she whispers, resting her head against his shoulder briefly. “I never thought I’d have this, after everything, and I’m so … so unbelievably grateful that I met you.” She sniffs, blinks quickly, and then gives a gentle laugh. “I wish I could stop crying today.”

 

“Maybe one day,” Jughead suggests, wiping at his own eyes. He kisses Betty, then gestures back to Cooper. “He’s really going to town, huh?”

 

“Like you said, he’s your son.”

 

“Guess those are his for awhile, huh?”

 

Betty rolls her eyes at him. Her response is preempted by Cooper drawing back from her. She hands the baby to Jughead, who slips a burping cloth over his shoulder, and then begins to cover herself again.

 

“You can tell the man waiting outside that he can come in now,” Betty tells Maribella, who’s on her way out. “He’s probably dressed in either leather or flannel.”

 

Maribella nods. “Will do. Betty, we’ll be bringing up some food for you to eat shortly, but try to get some more rest. And press the button if you need anything.”

 

“We will. Thank you,” she replies, her eyes already drifting away from the doorway to stare at Jughead and Cooper. He’s impossibly tiny against Jughead’s shoulder; his hands cover Cooper’s entire back and then some, with little legs tucked underneath in a dinosaur-print onesie. For his part, Jughead looks as completely enamored as Betty feels: he seems perpetually breathless, with an expression of adoration on his face that she’s never seen before in all the years she’s known him.

 

The gruff sound of a clearing throat jars Betty from her thoughts. FP is standing in the doorway, his hands nervously wringing together, wearing a long-sleeved flannel shirt and what seems to be a pair of brand-new jeans.

 

“Hi, Betty,” FP says, his voice full of more anxiety than Betty has ever heard in it before. His eyes are trained on the baby in Jughead’s arms. “Jug.”

 

Jughead looks up and smiles, but continues to rub the baby’s back. “Hi Dad,” he greets softly. “Come meet your grandson.” He sits down in a plastic chair near to Betty’s bed, nods to the one beside it, and holds Cooper back slightly so that FP can see his little face. “This,” he introduces, “is Cooper.”

 

“Cooper,” FP repeats, a smile spreading slowly. “That’s a great name.”

 

Betty watches the interaction between Jughead and his father carefully, realizes that Jughead isn’t planning on saying anything further, and then pipes up. “Actually,” she says, “we’re just calling him Cooper. His name is…”

 

“The fourth,” Jughead breathes, his gaze flicking nervously to FP and then back at Cooper. “He’s the fourth.”

 

FP glances away, his head ducked, and only when Betty sees his hand raise to his face does she realize that he’s wiping away tears. “The fourth,” he says in a choked tone, turning his head back. He swallows and nods as he accepts Jughead’s offer to hold Cooper. “Son, I don’t know what to -” He stops, adjusts Cooper’s head to rest more fully on the crook of his elbow, and then exhales audibly. “He looks just like you.”

 

“I think so too,” Betty agrees, trying to ignore the faint throbbing near her incision as the painkillers are beginning to wear off. She should be getting another dose soon, she thinks. “I just hope he eats less, or I’ll have to get a second job.”

 

FP chuckles. “Don’t count on it, Betty,” he says, looking at her and then back at Cooper. “He’s got a lot of growing to do.” His head raises, slowly, and he meets Jughead’s eyes. “Big shoes to fill.”

 

.

.

.

 

They go home three days later, once Cooper has mastered breastfeeding and it’s certain that Betty is recovering properly.

 

Weeks ago, Betty had somehow managed to convince her mother that her prolonged presence immediately following Cooper’s birth was not necessary (“I have Jughead, Mom,” she’d pointed out. “He’ll take good care of us”), so when Betty steps into the apartment, Jughead following behind with Cooper’s carseat, it’s just them.

 

The feeling is eerily natural and striking at the same time: this idea that from this point forward, it’s _just them -_ her and Jughead and little Cooper. Betty stares down at her son, who’s impossibly tiny in his carseat, and realizes for the umpteenth time that _she is a mother,_ that this little tiny human is hers to take care of, that things will never quite be the same ever again. It’s a welcome change, of course, not one they’d planned but one they’d wanted all the same, but Betty is still a little overwhelmed.

 

“I can’t believe they let us just … take him out of the hospital,” Jughead comments, leaning down to scoop up a curious Caramel, who has come out of hiding to wind around their ankles.

 

Betty chuckles. “Yeah, I know the feeling.” Currently, she’s an odd mixture of hormones and maternal instincts, but at the same time there’s a dull feeling of panic in the back of her mind. She leans her head against Jughead’s shoulder and stares at Cooper.

 

“What are we supposed to do now?” Jughead asks.

 

That sends her into a fit of giggles, spurred on by her tired body and exhausted mind, and she’s sinking into a chair before the pain near her incision can worsen. Jughead looks at her, mild panic in his eyes; she shrugs in response, and smiles. “I have no idea.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

They figure it out.

 

It turns out, Cooper has a fairly simple set of demands: _wah,_ he’s got a dirty diaper; _wah,_ he’s tired; and (especially) _wah,_ he’s hungry. Betty had expected all of these things. She’s read all the books and taken all the classes. She’s even kind of planned for it: there’s three weeks of dinners in the freezer for her and Jughead, six weeks’ worth of diapers in the nursery, and a new scratching post to keep Caramel entertained so that she can focus on the baby. She’s even mentally prepared to be exhausted, since all the books and classes and friends had said that, too.

 

As it turns out, even preparing and planning, the very hallmarks of her Cooper heritage, are not enough when faced with the real pace of filling Cooper’s needs. Planning did not account for her one clean shirt being peed on. Preparation is no match for the sheer fury of a hungry newborn. It is altogether overwhelming, especially since she’s still tired and recovering herself, and if it weren’t for Jughead, Betty knows she would’ve gone crazy already.

 

And _god:_ Jughead. Betty has long considered herself to be the luckiest girl on the planet. She’d learned within a month of answering his Craigslist ad years ago that he was not only unexpectedly funny and charming, but also kind and warm, if anyone was willing to put in a little bit of time to earn his trust. Throughout their platonic cohabitation, friendship, and eventually their romantic relationship, Jughead proved those qualities time and time again - she couldn’t begin to count the occasions, even if it was requested - and Betty’s now more than well-acquainted with his selflessness and patience. She got a good one, and she definitely knows it.

 

Yet still, while she’d assumed that he would go above and beyond in helping her with Cooper, Jughead managed somehow to again surpass Betty’s expectations. There’s a certain percentage of Cooper’s demands that only she can meet - Jughead can’t produce breastmilk, and while she does want to start pumping, she’s still the only one that can do that - but for everything else, Jughead is there. He’s there multiple times in the middle of the night when the baby wakes her up, and he’s there in the middle of the afternoon when she’s collapsed on the couch and can’t fathom getting up for nearly anything. He cooks the meals she’d made and he changes diapers and somehow, he manages to keep her sane.

 

On the seventh day of Cooper’s life, Archie and Veronica are due to come over to meet him for the first time. Cooper is napping in his bassinet at nine o’clock while Betty lays awake in her bed two feet away; she’d meant to also nap alongside her son, but her mind is racing. She’s going over all of the messy parts of the apartment - the living room, the kitchen, the _bathroom -_ and she knows that she needs to get up and straighten up before they have guests.

 

“Betty, turn your brain off,” Jughead mumbles from beside her. He slings an arm around her ribs and shifts toward her, pressing his lips to her shoulder. “Try to get some rest while the little general is asleep.”

 

She sighs and leans her head toward his, closing her eyes briefly as he kisses her temple. “I’m trying,” she says, “but Veronica and Archie are going to be here in a couple of hours and the apartment is-”

 

“Fine,” Jughead interrupts. “The apartment is fine. We have a newborn, Betts; nobody is going to expect your homemade iced tea today.”

 

Betty is quiet for a few minutes as she ponders this. Logically, he’s right. They have a very small, very new baby. She’s just given birth, and her caesarean delivery already promises a longer recovery time. She wouldn’t expect anyone else in her situation to be the perfect host, but that’s not how she was raised. Cooper women go above and beyond. They persevere. They _make things happen._

 

Betty gives another heavy sigh and turns into Jughead’s embrace, thinking, _I really need to get my mother out of my head._

 

“Good girl,” Jughead says through a yawn, sliding his arms around her. “Close those beautiful eyes, babe. You deserve the rest.”

 

 _“You_ deserve the rest,” she protests weakly, “you’ve been doing more than me.”

 

“We both deserve it,” he corrects. “And while I’ve only known him for a week, I’m pretty well-acquainted with the parents of that kid over there, and I doubt he’s going to let us have as much sleep as we need. So we’ll take what we can get, okay?”

 

Betty nods and shuts her eyes, settling her head beneath Jughead’s chin. “Okay,” she agrees. She tugs the blankets over her shoulders and uses Jughead’s body to block the light from her eyelids. Just before she lets sleep take her, she whispers, “Love you,” and smiles when she receives the echo in return.

 

.

.

.

 

She sleeps for a magical hour and a half before Cooper’s cries fill her ears. Betty slips out of bed with as much agility as she can manage and scoops him up from his bassinet. “Hey little man, shh,” she coos, stepping out of the bedroom quickly. Jughead has escaped waking for now, and Betty wants to let him indulge for as long as possible. She’s ever-grateful for his constant support, but he does go back to work in a few days and she needs to be able to do this on her own while she’s on maternity leave.

 

Betty shuffles her feet into the comfortable slippers that she’s left at the door of her bedroom, then steps down the hallway into Cooper’s nursery. His cries have subsided a little, but his diaper is clearly wet, and she’s quickly learning that her son does not like sitting in an unclean diaper for any length of time.

 

“You are such a little sweetheart,” she tells him as she sets him on the change table and begins to unfasten the snaps on his impossibly small onesie. “Just like your daddy.”

 

Cooper lets out a tearless wail and moves his arms in response. Betty chuckles and bends down, giving him a kiss on his warm, fuzzy head.

 

“So cooperative,” she continues, rubbing his chubby legs before unfastening the diaper. “And so precious. I hope you grow up to be kind and generous too, like your daddy. He’s a good man, y’know. You really lucked out here. You’re gonna have the best daddy around.”

 

Betty changes his diaper carefully; she’s not too much of a stranger to diapers, having helped Polly when her children were born, but she’s still careful anyway. He’s so small and helpless, and even though she knows it’s inane, something inside Betty keeps reminding her not to screw up. She hopes that anxiety will go away; it doesn’t seem sustainable, and she wants to be able to focus on all the good parts of this overwhelming, terrifying, beautiful experience.

 

When Cooper’s changed, Betty swaddles him and sits down in the rocking chair they’d bought for the nursery. She tugs her tank top down, unhooks her nursing bra, and begins to feed him. The sensation is starting to feel familiar by this point, but Betty doesn’t think she’ll ever get used to how incredible it feels at the same time - like this is what she was meant for, all these years. It’s intimacy of an entirely different kind than that which she’d had to spend so many painful years earning back with Jughead, and she truly feels like no love will ever be able to top this one.

 

After feeding, Betty puts Cooper into a cute onesie that says _hello, I’m new here_ across the front, then walks into the bedroom regretfully. She’s got about half an hour to play with, and what she’d like to do more than anything is shower; however, with Caramel still slightly wary of the baby, Betty’s not completely comfortable yet with leaving Cooper anywhere but with Jughead.

 

Jughead has flopped onto his back in the bed, sheets pushed to his waist, with his mouth slightly ajar and a quiet snore coming out of it. Wincing, Betty sits on the edge of the bed with Cooper in her arms and nudges his shoulder. “Juggie,” she whispers gently, “hey.”

 

He stirs near-instantly, which is a distinct change from how difficult it had been to wake him in her pre-pregnancy days. His eyes flutter open, and after a moment of realization, he smiles widely at them. “Hey you two,” he says, sitting up a little. “Did you have a good nap, little man?”

 

“He did,” Betty confirms. “Peed and ate, too. Um - V and Archie should be here soon, so I was going to have a quick shower just before. Can I leave him with you here, if that’s alright?”

 

“Of course, yeah.” Jughead sits up further and then extends his arms, taking Cooper from Betty’s embrace. “C’mere, buddy.”

 

Betty smiles at Jughead as he talks animatedly to their son. There’s a look on his face when he’s with Cooper that she’s never seen before in all the years she’s known him; it’s as close to pure contentment as she thinks he can get, and all over again she’s so grateful that they decided to do this.

 

“I’ll be quick,” she says, rising, but Jughead’s already wrapped up in Cooper and doesn’t respond. She lingers in the doorway briefly, watching them, and when she hears Jughead say, “Uncle Archie is going to call this ‘bro time’, but in this apartment we don’t subscribe to those kinds of hyper-masculine norms, so ignore him,” she can’t help but smile.

 

 _It’s going to be alright,_ she thinks, then goes toward the bathroom.

 

.

.

.

 

Veronica and Archie arrive just as Betty is finishing twisting her wet hair into a knot. She stares at herself in the mirror briefly while Jughead buzzes them up and tries to ignore the mild horror she feels at her appearance. She’s pale, with her tiredness obvious on her face, and her stomach is still rounded from the pregnancy in what she does not consider to be a flattering way, regardless of Jughead’s words. The leggings and long t-shirt she’s wearing do a decent job of partially concealing it, but she really can’t wait to get back out on the pavement, for reasons of both vanity and sanity.

 

Betty turns the light off in the bathroom and sighs in dismissal of her own thoughts. There’s not much she can do about this in the next two minutes, and honestly, it just feels good to be clean.

 

Jughead is in the living room when Betty enters, with the baby on his chest and the same look of reverent adoration from earlier on his face. He glances up at Betty and grins.

 

“He farted,” he reports gleefully. “It was _adorable.”_

 

Betty laughs. “Aww. Well, when that fart turns into something else, we’ll see if you think it’s still adorable.”

 

“It’s not actually as gross as I thought it would be, y’know,” Jughead comments. “I mean, it’s still poop, and that first one - _bleugh -_ but the smell really isn’t that awful.”

 

“That’s because he’s breastfeeding, apparently. It’ll start to be worse when he’s eating other food.” Betty catches sight of herself in the reflective glass of a framed photograph and makes a face, but resists the urge to adjust her clothing. She sighs and is about to walk to the door to meet Veronica and Archie, but the look in Jughead’s eyes when her gaze passes over him makes her pause.

 

 _Stop,_ the expression clearly reads. _You’re beautiful._

 

Betty bites her lip and gives him a small nod in response. There’s a knock on the door, and she strides over to open it.

 

As expected, it’s Veronica, dressed impeccably in a wool coat, pearls, and heels; behind her is Archie, wearing his usual jeans and jacket, carrying a gigantic wrapped box. Both of them are smiling, and Betty only barely manages to get out a “hi!” before she’s immediately embraced.

 

“Hi _yourself,”_ Veronica says, stepping through the doorway as soon as their hug breaks. “Betty, you look _incredible.”_

 

“Thanks,” she replies, flattening herself against the wall to allow Archie and his huge box to stagger through. “Hi, Archie.”

 

He sets it down in the hallway and then returns with a wide grin and sweeps her into his arms. “Hey! How are you feeling?”

 

“I’m doing okay,” Betty acknowledges, watching them squeeze their coats onto the coat rack by the door before turning to walk to the living room. “I don’t recommend a c-section, the recovery is a little annoying. But otherwise we’re just regular new-parent tired, I think.” She steps into the living room, where Jughead is still cuddling Cooper, and smiles. “Here’s the main event.”

 

To Betty’s surprise, it’s Archie that steps forward first. He sits down beside Jughead and stares at Cooper with an audible intake of breath. “Holy shit, Jug.”

 

Jughead smiles. “Meet Cooper. Cooper, this is your uncle Archie.” He moves one of Cooper’s tiny arms for him, miming a wave, and then shifts toward him. “You wanna hold him?”

 

“Absolutely.” Archie holds his arms out tentatively. Betty watches as Jughead carefully transfers the baby into them, ensuring that his head is supported properly; he then sits back slightly and smiles at the two of them.

 

Veronica drops her head onto Betty’s shoulder as she stands beside her. “He’s completely perfect, B.”

 

That makes Betty’s smile widen. She touches her head to Veronica’s, then gestures toward the armchair. “Sit, please,” she says. “Can I get anyone anything?”

 

“No,” Veronica says. _“You_ sit, honestly. I need to hover over my perfect little nephew here.” She moves to Archie’s side, perches on the arm of the couch, and shakes her head slowly. “What a little heartbreaker. He looks _just_ like you, Jughead.”

 

Jughead scratches his ear thoughtfully. “Yeah, everyone has been saying that. I hope it’s not completely true.”

 

Archie chuckles at that. “I mean, if he gets your athletic ability, that’s a little unfortunate, but -”

 

“I love how unconditionally supportive you are, Arch,” Jughead interrupts dryly.

 

“I do what I can. You wanna hold him, Ronnie?”

 

Veronica’s eyebrows shoot up. “Um, _yes,_ obviously. Here, switch with me. Why don’t you go get the … the - y’know - to give to them?”

 

“Oh, good idea.” With great care, Archie transfers Cooper to Veronica, then rises and skips over to the hallway. Betty sinks into the armchair that Veronica had declined, and busies herself with observing Veronica’s awed facial expressions. She wonders briefly if Veronica and Archie are at all considering having children, and has flashes of their kids together at the playground. She won’t ask; it’s none of her business, obviously, and she’s had enough of her own private struggles to know that even the most innocent of questions can be misplaced.

 

Still, it would be nice, she thinks.

 

Archie returns with the enormous box in his arms, and places it on the floor in front of Betty. “This is for you guys,” he declares. “I have a feeling one of you might get more use out of it than the other, but - anyway.” He sits down beside Veronica.

 

Jughead’s eyebrows shoot up at the sight of the box. “What the hell is this gigantic thing?” he asks, and receiving no response, he and Betty begin to tear at the paper.

 

It’s professionally wrapped, somehow, which Betty knows she shouldn’t really put past Veronica but is surprised about anyway. Her inner debate about whether or not to save the huge bow from the top is silenced as soon as the box comes into sight from beneath the paper, and her jaw unhinges in shock.

 

“Veronica,” she says, “you did _not_ -”

 

“Don’t even finish that sentence,” Veronica states matter-of-factly. “Of course I did.”

 

It’s a stroller, but not just _any_ stroller - it’s a jogging stroller, top of the line, the kind that Betty had salivated over on the internet for weeks before finally accepting that she could never justify the cost. She looks at Jughead, who seems slightly confused but also looks impressed at the same time, and suddenly, she wants to cry.

 

“Thank you so much,” he says, stepping in before Betty can start weeping over everybody. “This is really awesome.”

 

Betty nods her agreement, still a little choked up, and goes over to hug their friends again. As she does so, Archie seems to dismiss their gratitude, saying, “It’s no big deal. You guys are our family.”

 

That nearly makes her want to burst into tears as well, and like the first time, Jughead saves her.

 

“We really appreciate it all the same, man.” He claps a hand on Archie’s shoulder, then adds, “But for the record, I am _not_ going to start running.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more; can't believe this journey is nearly over.


	6. six

_“But the picking out, the choosing. Don't ever think I fell for you, or fell over you. I didn't fall in love, I rose in it. I saw you and made up my mind.”_

  * Toni Morrison



  
  


When they were kids, it had usually been fairly simple for Jughead to see Archie: he was a quick walk away, or sleeping on his bed beside Jughead’s air mattress. When they’d graduated, they’d both moved to Brooklyn and that had turned into a few steps toward the bedroom next door. Then Archie fell in love and moved to Manhattan, but still, seeing him just meant a relatively easy trip on the subway. He’d grab his keys and his MetroCard, and that was it; even when Betty had showed up in his life, Jughead’s trips were still easy. Anything extra, she’d carry in her purse, and the only added thing for him to think about was ensuring she felt okay if the train was particularly crowded. Either way, it was _simple._

 

Things, he’s now realizing, will never be quite that simple again.

 

Because _today,_ he’s standing on the subway with a diaper-and-toy-and-bottle-filled backpack on his back and his six-week-old baby son bundled tightly into the carseat that’s resting on the seat in front of him. It had taken a full twenty minutes to assemble all of Cooper’s required accessories, a length of time that had shocked Jughead. When Betty takes Cooper to the various bring-your-baby workout classes that she’s started to attend, he swears that it only takes her five; clearly, he’s got some work to do to catch up to her in the supermom department.

 

Initially, when they’d brought Cooper home, the division of parental labour had been as equal as he could make it (accounting for certain biological realities, of course). But then after a week, Jughead had had to go back to work, while Betty is on maternity leave for a little while. At the _Times,_ she gets sixteen weeks paid with the option for an additional six weeks unpaid. He’s also eligible for some paternity leave and plans to take it once Betty’s is up, but afterward they’ll have to start leaving Cooper at daycare. Jughead knows that he and Betty are luckier than most, as they both work for companies with paid parental leave benefits as well as decent medical insurance, but he’s still not looking forward to it.

 

For now, though, Betty’s at home, and since he’s been at work the unfortunate reality is that she’s been doing more of the active parenting than he has. On the weekends, like now, Jughead has been trying to make up for a bit of that imbalance by encouraging Betty to go out and do some of the things that she always did pre-pregnancy without him: running (which she’s finally recovered enough to start doing again), hanging out with Veronica, walks through the park, shopping. Betty has always had the tendency to dig a little too into herself, to withdraw - he empathizes with that - and while he also never wants to be away from Cooper, Jughead also thinks that it’s important for her to have some semblance of a life outside of the otherwise daily routine of diapers, crying, and feeding.

 

Sometimes, he also takes Cooper out of the apartment to go hang out with Archie for awhile, in order to give Betty a bit of a break at home. That’s his goal for today: Cooper will likely sleep and then spend a little bit of time wiggling on Archie and Veronica’s immaculate floor while he and Archie play video games, and meanwhile Betty and Veronica have some kind of at-home spa date scheduled in their apartment. The girls will come to Archie’s for dinner afterward, and in general Jughead is looking forward to the day. It’s a nice opportunity for Betty to get a bit of relaxation, particularly since in a few days they’ll be headed to Fred’s in New Jersey for Christmas. Because it had been so immediately after Cooper’s birth, the three of them hadn’t really celebrated Thanksgiving outside of Alice and Hal coming down to visit and making a roasted chicken, so Christmas will be his first major holiday.

 

Jughead’s excited - he knows that Betty has already bought several adorable Christmas outfits for Cooper, and he has a suspicion that Veronica and Archie have also acquired some items for the baby as well. Money is a little tight - baby items are expensive, and although they’d managed to get a lot of the required items secondhand or as gifts, there was certainly an up-front cost to parenthood - and with that stress top of mind, Jughead’s looking forward to spending a low-key holiday with his family.

 

“He’s very cute,” an older woman sitting near to Cooper says to Jughead as she smiles up at him. “How old?”

 

“Just about six weeks,” Jughead replies, fixing a polite smile on his face. He’s had to get a little better with his stranger-interactions, because as he’s quickly learned, apparently people are a lot more chatty when you’re walking around with a tiny infant.

 

The woman nods in understanding. “Take it all in,” she advises. “It moves so fast.”

 

“That’s what everyone tells me,” he replies. “We’re definitely absorbing every moment that we can.”

 

The train slows to a stop, and the woman rises to exit. “Well good for you for doing daddy duty today,” she comments, patting his shoulder. “Have a nice day, dear.”

 

Jughead presses his lips together to avoid responding rudely. Her intentions are good, he can tell, and he mentally repeats to himself that she’s just from a different generation - but it really annoys him when people say as much to him. _Daddy duty._ He’s a parent; it’s not a babysitting shift. Every now and then when he’s out with Cooper alone, he’ll get similar comments. It’s the implicit power imbalance that it insinuates which irks him the most; he very much doubts that anyone praises Betty for doing “mommy duty”.

 

And then still other times, it feels a bit like an accusation: _congratulations for doing the bare fucking minimum,_ which is a whole other level of annoyance.

 

Jughead sits down in the seat that the older woman vacated and peeks into the carseat. Cooper is asleep, somehow; the train is loud, it’s kind of cold, and there’s constant movement. Still, he looks very cozy, and Jughead finds himself wishing not for the first time that he was a baby again, even if only to be bundled up and secured in a soft, warm bed, with all his needs met and his every whim catered to.

 

Then Jughead remembers that Cooper shits himself on a regular basis and can barely hold his own head up, and he thinks, _never mind._

 

.

.

.

 

Jughead and Archie are partway through a level on the original Super Mario Brothers (which to Jughead’s delight is being played on an actual old-school NES that Veronica had somehow secured in mint condition, no doubt through either a decent financial investment or some other, slightly more nefarious means) when Cooper wakes up from his nap. He’s been asleep since Jughead had arrived almost two hours ago, so him waking is not unexpected in the slightest.

 

He doesn’t cry, but he does let out a little cooing noise through the baby monitor, so Jughead pauses the game. “Sorry, Arch,” he apologizes, getting up off the couch. He grabs the diaper bag on his way to the hallway, assuming it’ll be required.

 

“Don’t worry about it, bro,” Archie says dismissively, also standing. “I’m gonna grab a Red Bull, anyway. You want one?”

 

“No thanks,” Jughead replies as he turns into Veronica and Archie’s bedroom. It’s an immaculately decorated white fortress of _something -_ surely not purity, based on what Jughead knows of their sex life, but certainly of grandeur, at least. It also has awesome blackout curtains, which he’s taken advantage of a few times to ensure that Cooper has a good nap, even if he _does_ have to nap inside what is literally a padded laundry basket.

 

And there, on the floor, is Cooper: staring up at him from the makeshift mattress inside the basket, wiggling his little arms and legs, and making a repeated _“ahh”_ noise.

 

“Hey little man.” Jughead squats by the laundry basket and sets his hand inside, lightly tickling Cooper’s stomach to no reaction. “How did you sleep? Good, I bet, hmm? This is quite a fancy little bed here you’ve got.” Cooper makes another _“ahh”_ noise, and Jughead smiles. “I know, buddy, even the air in here smells richer.” He leans his head in and sniffs. “You don’t stink, but let’s just check to see if your diaper is wet, hmm?”

 

He lays out a changing pad onto the floor over top of an old half-blanket that he’d packed in his backpack-turned-diaper bag, then lifts his son out of the makeshift bed and lays him on the ground. Jughead slips him out of his sleeper, then unfastens the diaper, and --

 

“Oh yeah, you definitely peed.” Jughead makes a little face and then sets to work changing the diaper. He tries to do so quickly, willing himself to get it done in case Cooper decides he needs to pee again and this time does so on Veronica’s immaculate carpets.

 

It works; Jughead then slips Cooper’s onesie back on, packs the changing pad and other accessories away, and carries his son into the living room. Archie is sitting on the couch again, nursing an energy drink, and his face lights up when he sees Cooper.

 

“Hey buddy,” he says, setting the can down on the coffee table in front of him. “Wanna come hang out with the boys?”

 

Jughead smiles at the small interaction. He loves seeing Cooper with his family; Archie’s his brother in every way that counts, and it’s important to him that they get along. He doesn’t wanna be _that guy_ that brings his baby everywhere or can’t have a night away from him (neither does Betty, for that matter; they’ve had extensive conversations about it) but for right now his priority is taking care of Cooper while ensuring that Betty gets some time to herself or some adult time with non-infant company, and he’s really glad that Archie seems to like Cooper’s presence.

 

“Does he wanna come chill with Uncle Archie?” Archie offers, extending his hands to take Cooper from Jughead.

 

“Sure.” Jughead passes his son off, then picks up the NES controller and begins a new game, solo. “If he starts fussing a lot, let me know, he might be hungry. I have a bottle in the fridge in case he can’t wait for Betty to get here.”

 

“Roger that.” Archie babbles incoherently at Cooper for a moment, then glances up. “By the way, how’s Betty doing?”

 

Jughead nods rhythmically. “Good, I think,” he answers. “Cooper’s such a good baby, we’re lucky so far, but it’s still a ton of work. She’s finally starting to feel good after the c-section, can start running and all that again, so I keep trying to help her have like, ‘me time’, you know?”

 

“That’s a good idea.”

 

“Yeah.” Jughead sighs. “I mean, I get to go to work and have adult conversations, and she’s at home, almost always.”

 

Archie shakes his head in disbelief. “It’s crazy that something so small can be so much work.”

 

“I know.” Jughead chuckles and looks over at Cooper, who’s staring at Archie in wonder. He really does look quite a lot like him, with the same dark hair and blue eyes, albeit a slightly lighter complexion. “You’re such a cute kid,” he tells him.

 

Archie makes a fake _aww_ noise. “Thanks, bro, I try.”

 

He rolls his eyes in response, finishes the level, and is about to choose another when the sound of keys in the door signals the arrival home of Veronica, and with her, Betty. Jughead sets the controller down and stands up just as the door swings open.

  
Veronica strides in, dressed in some kind of expensive-looking loungewear. Behind her, Betty’s wearing jeans and a drapey, wrapped sweater that Jughead knows she’d purchased specifically for its easy nursing access. It has the sort-of unintended effect of highlighting her breasts, and while he knows they’re fuller because they’re feeding the tiny human in the living room (and not at all because of _him),_ Jughead’s eyes can’t help but be drawn to her cleavage.

 

“Hey,” he says, going toward Betty to help her with her coat. “Did you guys have a good time?”

 

“It was beyond relaxing,” Veronica proclaims, smiling past him into the living room. “Oh my _gosh,_ Archiekins, look at you with that little angel. Hang on, don’t move, I need a picture-”

 

She’s fluttered past him before Jughead can even respond, and he takes the opportunity to glance at Betty. _“Was_ it relaxing?” he prompts, hanging her coat in the hall closet. “You look rested.”

 

Betty nods with a slow smile. “It was. A long massage and facial - just what my tired, weirdly hormonal skin needed.” She slips her hands onto his hips and kisses him softly, which he returns happily. “How was your guy time?”

 

Jughead winds his arms around her waist and presses a chaste kiss to the side of her neck. “Mm, yeah, you smell like lavender oil and something else.”

 

“Eucalyptus.” She giggles at his mouthing and pushes at his chest, which he obeys instantly. “How’s Cooper?”

 

“He slept like, the entire time I’ve been here, and most of the way also.” Jughead nods his head over to the living room, where Veronica is now holding Cooper and cooing at him. “He’s probably getting hungry. You got those things locked and loaded?” he asks, gesturing to her chest. “They look really good right now, just in case you were wondering.”

 

Betty swats at Jughead’s arm. _“Juggie,”_ she admonishes, blushing although nobody besides them can possibly hear. “I don’t know about locked, but they’re definitely loaded. They hurt, and I either need to pump or feed him, for sure.”

 

He nods in understanding. “We can get you set up wherever you want. The bedroom, I’m guessing?”

 

She nods, which he’d anticipated. Betty’s always been fairly shy about her body around most people - he gets it, after all she’s been through - and that’s certainly extended to breastfeeding. She’s done it in public, when necessary, and while he knows she supports the right of women to do so, he also knows that her preference is strongly to not have to.

 

“Okay. Any idea what you want for dinner?” Jughead asks as they walk toward the living room. “Veronica? Arch?”

 

“Not picky,” Archie says, at the same time as Veronica informs him, “I had Fairway Market cater.”

 

Betty glances at her. “V, you didn’t have to do that; we’d be okay with anything.”

 

She shrugs. “Seemed easiest. The guy there owes me a favour, anyway. It’s not like it’s Tavern on the Green.”

 

Betty nods slowly, then squeezes Veronica’s shoulder. “Well thank you, anyway. I’m going to take him to feed quickly, then - do you mind if I use your bedroom?”

 

“Be my guest,” Veronica says, moving to the edge of the couch as she transfers Cooper carefully into Betty’s arms.

 

“Hi baby boy,” Betty gasps in a happy voice, kissing Cooper’s cheeks. Their son hasn’t quite mastered a smile yet (they’ve been told to keep their eye out, as he’s just reached the age where it may be expected), but he tucks his head against Betty’s chest and starts power-nuzzling at the sight of his mother. It makes Jughead’s heart want to burst with fullness, and he doesn’t stop smiling until Betty’s disappeared down the hallway.

 

“Christmas is gonna be so much better with a baby,” Veronica declares. “Just _wait.”_

 

“We have so many embarrassing outfits for him to wear,” Jughead reports with a wry smile. “You guys heading up on the weekend?”

 

Archie nods, already back to playing Nintendo. “Dad’s expecting us Saturday. What about you?”

 

“I think same. But we’ve got a separate car with all the baby stuff we’ve gotta bring now. It’s probably not cool for him to sleep in a laundry basket for like, four days, so the pen thing has to come, and the _diapers,_ and toys, and just so many things. Plus Caramel.” Jughead sighs; he’s exhausted just thinking about packing.

 

“We’ll help unload,” Veronica promises. “As long as I get to snuggle that adorable little baby of yours.”

 

Jughead gives a soft, easy laugh. “Anytime, Auntie V.”

 

* * *

 

  

To Veronica’s credit, she does help unload.

 

Well, _sort of._ Archie helps unload, but he’s doing so at her instruction, and after the annoyance of carrying item after item down their apartment elevator and into a questionably-parked rental car, Jughead will take whatever he can get.

 

Because it’s snowing and cold in Newark, Betty is already inside with Cooper when Jughead first appears in Fred’s doorway, carrying his and Betty’s suitcase in one hand and the bag filled with most of Cooper’s accessories in another. Caramel has been deposited on the ground, meaning that she’s ran off beneath a bed somewhere with an aging Vegas hot on her heels, but it’s Fred that he pays attention to. He’s hovering in front of Betty, staring down at the pseudo-grandson that he’s had yet to meet.

 

His eyes are full of tears.

 

“Jug, it’s like a little miniature you,” he marvels, quickly bringing his hand up to swipe at his cheeks. “Think he’s got Betty’s nose, though.”

 

Betty nods happily. “We think so too,” she agrees, looking at Jughead. “He eats as much as Jughead does too, so far. Mind if I take him upstairs to do that quickly? He just woke up as we were entering Newark, and he’s about to start screaming.”

 

Fred steps aside. “Sure, of course. Here, I can hold him while you get your coat off and everything,” he offers.

 

Betty accepts, and as she sheds her outer layers Jughead watches as the man who’d found him living in the park, who’d taken him in as his own, lifts his son out of Betty’s arms.

 

“Hey, little guy,” Fred greets. His voice is gentle and gruff at the same time, a perfect reflection of the man. “Welcome to your first Christmas.”

 

Cooper responds by wailing; Betty giggles and takes him back a moment later, once she’s hung up her coat. Before heading back out to the car to unload more, Jughead smiles apologetically at Fred, who gives him a very clear _this isn’t my first rodeo, kid_ kind of look, and ushers Betty upstairs.

 

Jughead and Archie unload the rest of the stuff from his rental, including several gifts for beneath the tree. Betty’s still upstairs, so Jughead goes up to check on her and Cooper.

 

She’s propped up against the headboard in Jughead’s old room, with Cooper in her arms, still latched. As he enters, Betty smiles; he can see the lack of sleep from the previous week in her eyes, but she looks happy anyway.

 

“He was pretty hungry,” she observes, shifting over a little to make room for Jughead as he sits beside her.

 

Jughead drapes an arm around her shoulders and watches Cooper eat. He’s seen it countless times now - she’s pretty liberal with her feeding locales as long as it’s around their apartment - but it’s still marvelous anyway, this idea that her body not only grew their baby son but continues to sustain him. She’s a miracle, he thinks, almost more than he is.

 

“You’re incredible,” he murmurs to her, kissing her softly. “Does it ever occur to you that you literally just needed me for the sex part, and you can do all the rest of this yourself?”

 

He means it as a joke, but a very serious expression crosses Betty’s face suddenly, and he frowns, confused.

 

“What are you talking about?” she asks, her brows furrowed. “Do you seriously think I could have done any of this without you?”

 

Jughead stares at her blankly for a moment, unsure of what to say to get out of the trouble he’s pretty sure he just got himself into. “Umm … no?” he guesses.

 

Betty looks down at Cooper, sniffs, then raises her head to show him the moisture around her eyes. “Juggie,” she says patiently, “obviously, you can’t carry children, and you can’t breastfeed; that’s just … I dunno, biology. But the rest of this - I wouldn’t have even gotten out of the first trimester if it weren’t for you. You’ve been there every single step of the way, and then some. You have no idea how grateful I am for all that you’ve been doing.”

 

“You’re the one doing it all, babe,” he tells her softly, but she shakes her head.

 

“You’re so good to us,” she says anyway. “I’m pretty sure my dad was not this hands-on. But I shouldn’t be surprised. You’ve always been so much … more.”

 

“You’re my family,” Jughead responds, slightly bewildered. “I need you - both of you - to be good and happy and healthy. Cooper’s needs are a little more straightforward, I guess, but you know I want you to get the time you need. The sleep, the … I dunno, activity, the everything.”

 

Betty nudges her head against Jughead’s shoulder and draws Cooper back as he stops feeding. “I know,” she says gently, passing the baby off to Jughead to burp. “But you work all day then come home and do everything for us and I just - don’t forget about you too, okay?”

 

Jughead nods and kisses her temple. “I promise,” he says. He tugs on the sleeve of Cooper’s onesie, which has _my first ugly Christmas sweater!_ written across the front, waits for Betty to get her bra and sweater back in place, then heads downstairs.

 

.

.

.

 

The six of them spend the afternoon busy: Archie and Veronica with completing the decoration of the Christmas tree, Fred playing with Cooper and a portable mobile toy set on the living room floor, and Betty in the kitchen. Fred had initially planned on cooking, but as soon as the ingredients had started to come out, Betty had looked longingly into the kitchen and they’d switched roles. She’s not really had the time to do a lot of cooking at home recently - they’ve lived off a lot of frozen, prepared meals - and prior to the baby being born, it was something that had brought her a lot of stress relief.

 

Still, Jughead thinks it’s a little imbalanced that a new mother would have to go in and do all the preparatory work for dinner, even if she loves it, so he’s in there helping.

 

And by _helping,_ he means _obeying._

 

It’s not quite Christmas or Christmas Eve yet, so the dinner they’re preparing is nothing too special: a roasted pork tenderloin, quite a large one even for five adults, potatoes, and salads. Still, there’s a lot of vegetable washing and chopping to be done, not to mention peeling of the potatoes, and Jughead’s been set to work getting that done while Betty checks on the tenderloin and begins to make a gravy.

 

Then, right as Jughead finishes with the last of the potatoes, the doorbell rings.

 

Jughead assumes it’s some kind of salesman or other advertiser with odd manners around dinnertime and the holiday season, so he moves onto vegetables for the salads without much of a second thought. Veronica’s now on the floor with Cooper while Fred goes to answer it, and he’ll let Fred and a slowly sauntering Vegas be the welcome party for whatever temporary guest has arrived.

 

But then his father walks around the corner, and Jughead freezes.

 

“Dad?”

 

FP stands nervously in the doorway to the kitchen, a duffel bag over his shoulder and an anxious smile on his face. “Hey, kid. Betty.”

 

Fred walks up beside him, a hand clapped on FP’s shoulder. “We’ve been talking a lot lately, and I invited him for Christmas,” he explains, his eyes already lit up with what Jughead recognizes exclusively as the happy familiarity of old friendship, the kind you have to earn.

 

“Wasn’t sure if I could get away from work,” FP explains, still somewhat on edge. “But I didn’t wanna miss my grandson’s first Christmas.”

 

Jughead sets the paring knife down and wipes his hands, which are sticky with the faint remnants of vegetable juices, on his jeans. He passes by Betty, squeezing her waist as he goes by, then tugs his father into a hug.

 

“I’m glad you’re here, Dad,” he says into his shoulder. “Merry Christmas.”

 

.

.

.

 

Later, once food has been eaten and Cooper’s been fed and changed a second time, Veronica does what she refers to as “the grand reveal” of her and Archie’s decorating efforts. The tree lights up, with golden, twinkling lights and dark blue ornaments shining beneath.

 

And in his arms, with Betty beside him and all of their family watching, Jughead’s son smiles.

 

.

.

.

**fin**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Words are not enough to express how much I want to thank you all for the love that you've shown this story. We're about at a year since I began to write the first installment, and I couldn't have imagined then what this might turn into. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Please leave some thoughts on this chapter and if you so choose, the series as a whole - I've been really, really lucky to receive such overwhelming support and I'll never forget it.


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